by Nina Bawden
I said: “You like to have things every way, don’t you? You don’t want your wife mixed up in a manslaughter charge and you manage to make it sound as if it were your moral duty to withhold information from the police.”
His eyes creased with laughter and his face broke suddenly into one of his rare, enchanting smiles.
“Come, Tom,” he said. “Did I sound so pompous? I’m sorry. But the need for self-justification is a fairly common one, isn’t it?”
I felt like a rebuked, small boy. He went on in a light and cheerful voice. “And it is to your advantage, isn’t it? A scandal of this kind would affect your career as badly as it would affect mine. We’re all in it together; the least we can do is to be civil to each other.”
I didn’t feel like being civil. “All right,” I said, “so we’re blood brothers. In that case I would like to know what Emily was doing on the barge.”
He looked at Emily with a smile of kind inquiry. Her face was colourless and as blank as an empty page.
He said: “Dear, will you tell Tom why you went to see Parry last night?”
Her voice was brittle. “I would rather not talk about it,” she said.
Geoffrey gave me a wry grin. He said: “It’s quite simple, Tom. We knew Parry when we were in Belfast during the war. At least, Emily knew him. He was a friend of her brother’s. Emily was seeing more of him than I liked and I had to take rather a tough line. A word or two in the right quarter and Parry had to pack his bags and look for work elsewhere. Not the sort of thing I enjoy doing, you understand; but it appeared to be necessary in this case.”
He looked rueful as though getting people the sack was the normal, painful duty of a gentleman.
He went on: “Of course it was all tactfully and carefully done. I had no idea that Parry had found out what had happened. It was natural enough for him to feel pretty vindictive towards me when he did. It was unlucky that we found ourselves living in the same town. I think Parry thought he could get his own back in that nasty little column he runs…”
Emily said: “Promiscuous wife of prospective Conservative candidate. Is that what you’re getting at?”
She sounded extraordinarily bitter.
He said indulgently: “Hardly that. But your little affaire with Tom had given him a line, hadn’t it?”
I said to Emily: “Was David your lover?”
I didn’t mean to be deliberately cruel; the question, at that moment, was prompted more by bewilderment than jealousy.
Geoffrey laughed. “Come, now, Tom. This is hardly the place or the time for that kind of question. Emily thought that there had, at one time, been sufficient friendship between her and Parry for her to persuade him to hold his tongue—or his pen.”
It sounded thin and evasive. Emily wouldn’t look at me. She sat down and stared into the fire. I wished we were alone together so that I could tell her it was all right and I loved her.
Then I remembered about the bicycle; it was an unlikely thing to cause trouble and, telling them about the sergeant’s curiosity, it sounded more of a joke than anything else.
Geoffrey smiled in a pleased sort of way, and said: “There was a nasty scratch on the wing. But the car was due to be resprayed anyway, so I took it along to the garage this morning.” He looked at his watch. “I have a lunch appointment. Would you like a lift back into town?”
Emily came to the door and saw us into the car. She smiled good-bye, but her face was tired and withdrawn and it was like parting from a stranger.
We drove most of the way in silence; as we got to the outskirts of the town Geoffrey said: “How has Nora taken this business, Tom?”
I said: “I don’t know. I told you last night. She’s left me.”
He grunted something under his breath and then he said: “She’s not thinking of doing anything dramatic, is she? You know—if she were—I can’t pretend that it wouldn’t be most unfortunate for me.”
I said: “I have no idea what she intends to do.”
He looked at me side-long. “Look, old boy, if there’s anything I can do I’d be pleased to do it. Women will quite often listen to reason from someone else, you know.”
I said: “It’s kind of you. I’m pleased you should be so concerned with my matrimonial affairs.”
He lifted the corners of his mouth in an attempt at a smile but the prominent eyes were cold.
He said: “I seem to be fairly closely concerned in them anyway, don’t I? And this morning the bond between us would appear to be even more closely tied. I think we should help each other, Tom.”
Of course he had the whip hand. It was useless to pretend anything else.
I said: “All right. If I want your help, I’ll ask for it. Will you drop me at my college?”
He stopped the car outside the gate, nodded to me in a friendly fashion and drove away. I stayed in my room until after tea. Then I walked home and found a policeman and a plainclothes man waiting for me there.
Chapter Six
The inspector was a small man in a shabby raincoat. He had a deferential air and a thin face with a delicate, sad mouth. His eyes were bright and the colour of pennies; they slanted upwards when he smiled and gave his brown face a Chinese look.
He was smiling as I turned in at the gate. His voice was flat and harsh and bred in the Midlands.
He said: “Mr. Harrington? We were afraid we had missed you.”
I felt as cold as the grey and empty sky. I mumbled something about working in college and he stood politely aside so that I could open the door. I saw the twitch of my neighbour’s curtain out of the corner of my eye; ridiculously, I was anxious that we should get inside the house before they arrested me and my fingers were slow and clumsy.
The house smelt fusty and shut up. I took them into the front room, and it seemed very small and cramped with the three of us standing there.
He said: “I’m sorry to trouble you, Mr. Harrington. We wanted to ask you a few questions.
He was casual and bright and friendly; the rosy-skinned sergeant took out his notebook and stood there, waiting like a policeman in a play.
The Inspector said: “We won’t keep you long,” and smiled again, crinkling his bracken-brown eyes. I knew then that it was all right, that it was only routine and I need not be afraid. And curiously, once the tenseness of fear had left me I did not feel relieved, only soft and spongy, like a marshmallow.
He was un-endowed with the majesty of the Law; he had an air of authority but it was limited, like a bank clerk’s. He was entirely unremarkable except for the brightness of his eyes and the exceptional, fine-boned beauty of his hands. They were small for a man, long-fingered and narrow across the knuckles. They were gentle, civilised hands. All the time we were talking they lay still and folded one above the other in his lap.
He said: “Mr. Harrington, I am afraid you must have had a shock this morning. Your brother-in-law … Do his family know?”
“I sent a telegram,” I said. I felt in my pocket for my cigarette case. It was empty and I took one out of the box on the mantelpiece, lit it and drew in the smoke so deeply that it hurt my lungs.
He nodded. “We shall need to see them,” he said. Then: “Did you see him last night?” His voice was patient and inquiring, the question, casual.
I said: “No. I hadn’t seen him since lunchtime. I told the sergeant so.”
There was a white ridge of skin on his forehead, just below the hair line where his face had been shaded from the sun. He said: “I see. You were at the Fosters’last night, weren’t you? What time did you leave?”
I told him and he pursed his mouth gravely. “Where did you go after that?”
I told him about the accident. I said that I had had to walk home. I said that I had dropped into the Goat and Compasses for a drink. He listened.
Then he said: “Can you remember anything about the car that knocked you down? Your bicycle was badly buckled, so the sergeant told me.”
I tried to sound rueful. “I wis
h I did. It’ll be an expensive job putting it right again. It was a biggish car—but beyond that I can’t help you.”
I wasn’t sure whether he believed me or not. He asked me a few more questions about David and his family, and then he thanked me and stood up.
“We won’t take up any more of your time,” he said. His smile was sudden and unexpectedly sweet; it transformed his face. I took him to the door and in the narrow, dark hall he turned and said:
“Was your brother-in-law a quarrelsome man, Mr. Harrington? The sort of man likely to pick a fight?”
I could feel the pulse in my throat. I said, as evenly as I could: “I didn’t know him well. We had very little in common.”
He looked understanding and said nothing. I said, because I had to know: “I thought it was an accident. Could it have been anything else?”
He said: “What?” as though he had only half-heard me. Then he gave a short, formal laugh. “Oh. Yes. An accident. Didn’t it seem like that to you?”
He thanked me again and said good-bye, and walked up the path a little ahead of the policeman. From the back, his thinness gave him an air of pathos; his shoulders looked forlorn and slightly bowed as though he found the world too much for him. When they were outside the gate, he turned and latched it with slow care. It was an ill-fitting gate and he was the first person for a long time who had bothered to close it properly.
When they had gone I lit another cigarette and poured myself a glass of beer. I was sick with relief; I told myself that I had acted like a fool. I should have expected the police. They were only doing their job; David was dead and it was their business to find out how he had died. I wondered if it would have been better or worse if he had died quietly tucked up in his bunk where Geoffrey had left him.
I finished the bottle of beer and picked up the telephone.
Emily was in. It was a bad line and it was difficult to hear everything she said because of the ridiculous gremlin noises. I told her that the police had been, flatly and without preamble. I remember that I waited, almost eagerly, for her reaction. Perhaps subconsciously I was already wary.
She sounded astonished. “Tom, how awful.… Will they come here? What shall I say if they do?”
I said: “I shouldn’t think they will. After all, I was the obvious person. You and Geoffrey are safe enough.”
Her voice was subdued. She said: “I’m sorry, Tom,” as though I had deliberately rebuked her. Then, hesitantly: “Tom, I want to see you: May I come over? Geoffrey isn’t here. He’s gone to London—he had to see a man and he didn’t want to put it off.”
I said: “Of course. Please come. I’ll be waiting.”
There was no way to stop her coming, other than telling her the truth. And I didn’t want to admit that I minded about the neighbours’gossiping; it would sound shabby and stupid and she would not have understood.
I went upstairs to change my suit and wash. My shirt was soaked with sweat and my hands were clammy. I splashed cold water over my face, looked at my chin and wished I had time to shave. From the bedroom I heard the car drasw up outside the gate and Sandy’s voice. I went to the window and saw Mrs. Parry getting out of the taxi. She was looking up at the house; her face was lifted towards me like a pale, malevolent flower.
I wondered if I could get to the telephone before they paid the taxi; I ran downstairs and bolted into the sitting-room. I heard the key turn in the front door before the operator had answered the urgent ringing; I put the receiver down guiltily and went to meet them.
Sandy was grubby from the train journey and his socks sagged round his ankles. His face was alight at being home again.
He said: “Hallo, Daddy. Auntie gave me some lettuce for my garden.” He dragged a screwed-up seed packet from his pocket and held it out triumphantly. “I’m going to plant them now,” he said, and disappeared through the kitchen to the garden.
Nora didn’t smile at me. She was pale and her eyes were pink and narrowed with weeping.
She said: “We came as soon as we got the telegram. I rang you from London, but you were out.”
She went into the front room and Mrs. Parry followed her. They looked at me silently, on their faces there was expectancy and a kind of outrage.
I told them about David. There was conventional horror and dismay and a few, undistressing tears. Clearly it seemed, from the arrival of the telegram they had expected to find him dead; now, even the manner of his dying did not appear an additional disaster.
Mrs. Parry said: “He’s had it coming to him a long time. Always was quick-tempered, like his father.”
Nora said: “What do you mean? Poor Dai …” Her voice cracked harshly and the tears flowed again, but more from hysteria than grief. She had never felt, for David, even an apathetic, sisterly affection and I think she must have sounded hypocritical, even to herself, because she wiped her eyes, took out her compact and began to powder her nose.
I said slowly and carefully: “It was nothing to do with quick temper. It was an accident. There was no one else there.”
Her voice was contemptuous with disbelief. “And what do you know about it? Do you expect me to believe that he fell and killed himself? My David was as sure on his feet as a cat.”
I said: “I only know what the police told me. He might have slipped on something.” I remembered the bottle that I had tidied away in the ash bin. I knew suddenly and fearfully that I must be careful not to say something that I should not have known.
She stared at me and I felt myself grow stiff with panic. Then the tension died and she went out of the room without a word, her back set and broad under her black, cloth coat. I went after her wondering if I should say something, but she climbed the stairs slowly and did not look back at me although she must have known that I was there. Her legs were thick and clumsy in elastic stockings and she leaned heavily on the banister rail like a very old woman uncertain of her steadiness and strength. She went into her room and closed the door; for the first time I felt a kind of pity for her and wondered what she felt when she was alone, and how she looked without the familiar mask of bitterness and rancour.
Nora had made up her face untidily; she had put on too much lipstick and it looked absurd and clown-like against the pallor of her skin. She was sitting on a hard chair in front of the window, her hands primly folded in her lap. Her eyes were inimical and defiant.
She said: “I didn’t want to come back. If it hadn’t been for David, I shouldn’t have come back at all.”
It wasn’t true, of course. She was making a virtue of necessity and at any other time I might have been touched by the bravado and the unhappiness behind it. But now I was listening for Emily with a mixture of fear and excitement; there was nothing I could do to avert calamity and this, in a way, was a kind, of relief.
There was a slender chance. I said: “Nora, dear, I’m sorry but I have to go out. It’s important. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
She was angrily surprised. “It must be very important for you to leave me now, when my only brother has been killed.”
I said patiently, although it was probably stupid to bother: “Dear, he wasn’t killed. They’re not sure, but it looks as if he fell.”
She was barely listening. She said: “It was a terrible way to die. Alone and in the dark. Don’t you care at all? Poor Mother.…” She was working herself into hysteria; the skin was stretched tight round her mouth and at the corners of her eyes. “Tom, I must talk to you. You can’t go out and leave me. Please, Tom …”
And then I heard the squeal of the Ford’s brakes. They sounded shatteringly loud in the silence although Nora glanced over her shoulder at the window with no more than ordinary, abstracted interest, before she turned back to me.
The whole thing became suddenly a nightmare. I was cold throughout my body with the kind of paralysed fear that comes not with threatened violence but with embarrassment. Embarrassment of that special kind that stems from not knowing how someone whose bed you have shared for e
ight years is going to behave. I looked at Nora and was afraid both for her and of her. If she had been a stranger it would not have mattered that she was unpredictable. As it was, I found her terrifying.
The gate squeaked open and then the doorbell rang.
Nora sighed and got up crossly from her chair.
I said: “I’ll go. Stay here, Nora. Please.”
She turned to me an innocent, blank face. She stared for a moment and then the innocence went and she looked secretive and sly. She said: “Oh, I see. Then you’d better go, hadn’t you?”
Her face went slowly scarlet as if with shame. She said, in a mumble: “You won’t let her come in, will you?”
“No,” I said. “Nora …” And I stopped. There was no point in telling her the truth; that I hadn’t expected her back. There was no point in saying anything at all.
She ran, pushing past me, into the hall. The tears, genuine and unforced now were running down her cheeks. She went into the kitchen and closed the door behind her. I knew where she would go because it had so often been her refuge at the end of a row—there was a small glass structure leading off the kitchen and it was there she always hid, among the deck-chairs and the paint pots, intentionally forlorn, until she was found and comforted.
I opened the front door and it seemed ridiculously inept that Emily should smile at me with untroubled pleasure. I told her that Nora had come home and the smile went from her face.
She said: “Oh, God. I’ll go, then. I’m sorry, Tom.”
I said: “It’s a bit late to be sorry,” suddenly almost viciously angry with her, blaming her unfairly and stupidly, for Nora’s hurt, white face.
She said helplessly: “How could I know?” turned sharply and walked back to the car. I ran after her and said that I was sorry, that I hadn’t meant it. She smiled at me in a brittle fashion and got into the driving-seat. I felt furtive and, I think, that she did too; I remember that we spoke in whispers as if the whole street were listening.
She said, her hand on the parking brake: “Are you coming, Tom?” There was no appeal in her voice, only a flat question. Her lips were still parted in a stiff and stagey smile.