Victims

by Richardson,Robert

  ‘I was at the back … I’m sorry, I didn’t see you.’

  ‘That’s all right. This is my mother, incidentally … Mr Jowett. He’s staying at Windhover.’

  ‘Good morning.’ Grace offered her hand. ‘I hope you’re enjoying your holiday.’

  ‘Yes. Thank you.’

  ‘Do you know this part of Suffolk?’

  ‘No. I’ve never been here before … It’s very attractive.’

  ‘And what have you discovered so far?’

  ‘Not much … I’ve not been out very often.’

  ‘But there are wonderful places to visit.’ Grace sounded disappointed, as though her adopted county was being slighted. ‘Melford Hall is absolutely marvellous. It isn’t far.’

  ‘I know … I read about it in one of the books at the cottage. Didn’t Elizabeth I stay there?’

  ‘I think she did. Are you interested in history?’

  ‘Parts of it, especially the Tudors. I’ll try to get over there. Thank you.’

  ‘Mr Jowett isn’t just here for a holiday.’ Joyce liked the way he was talking to her mother. ‘He’s writing a book.’

  ‘Are you? Now I’ll be able to tell people I’ve met a famous author.’

  ‘It’s his first book, Mummy.’

  ‘Well you must stick to it. My husband and I used to know … what was his name? It doesn’t matter. But he wrote a book which became enormously successful. I think they even made a film of it. I hope they do with yours.’

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t expect they will.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure it would be better than some of the dreadful tilings they keep putting on television nowadays. Nobody seems to make nice films any more.’

  ‘No … I must get back. I’ve left something in the oven.’

  ‘Oh.’ Joyce felt a twinge of regret. ‘I was about to ask if you’d like to come back for a drink. Sundays can be miserable when you’re on your own.’ And I know what that’s like, even when there are people in the house.

  ‘It’s all right … I’m used to it.’

  Nobody gets used to it, they just find ways to endure it.

  ‘Will you be here again next Sunday?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t often … perhaps.’ He smiled thinly at them both and walked away.

  Grace invested Jowett with the standards of her generation. ‘What a very courteous young man. Well brought up.’

  ‘He went to Cambridge … I met him the other day and he mentioned it.’ Joyce was looking to where the drop of the road was taking him below the churchyard wall and out of sight. You can’t have known what I was thinking ten pews in front of you. How religious are you? This is the second time you’ve been in the church. Or are you just seeking comfort because you’re unhappy? God, I want so much to — ‘What?’

  ‘I was just saying that so few young people nowadays seem to have good manners when you talk to them. They mumble.’

  ‘He’s not that young, Mummy. He must be nearly thirty.’

  ‘That’s quite young.’

  Joyce took her arm again. ‘Come on, or you won’t have time for your sherry.’

  *

  Jowett was terrified someone else might speak to him before he reached the sanctuary of the cottage. Everything had been hypocrisy: accepting a hymn book, nervously reacting to smiles of welcome, pretending to pray, unable to make the responses because it was years since he’d been a regular churchgoer. He’d slipped past the vicar in the porch after the service, not wanting to talk … then he’d had to force himself to speak to Joyce Hetherington and her mother. None of them knew it had been a purgatory, an attempt to be with ordinary people, to act like them, because … because if he could manage that in that church of all places then it would be easier elsewhere. But if they’d known the truth, they would have turned on him, a loathed figure far beyond their capacity to forgive.

  Isolation, his companion for years, seemed greater here. He was an unsuspected leper among the healthy … No, stop the bloody metaphors. You’re a murderer, lying because you’ve never had the courage to confess. These are the sort of people whose lives you once mocked for their banality, their lack of sophistication. But they’re decent, bringing up families, helping each other, doing no harm — and now you want to be like them, mortgaged to a limited life, boring but guiltless. The simplest ambition of all, and you can’t achieve it.

  One week … and what? Useless prayers, crawling back to the farm in the night, dragging the truth out of yourself on the laptop as if it might do any good … You could buy another razor. Great. It’ll make all the difference if you do it here, won’t it? Are you going to leave a note for Mrs Hetherington to find?

  I’m sorry about this, but there were so many things I wasn’t able to explain. This is nobody’s fault but mine. Thank you for your kindness, I enjoyed talking to you. Please don’t let this worry you. Randall Jowett.

  His stomach tightened. You can’t even imagine confessing to someone after you’re dead. Their hatred won’t matter then … but the only reason they don’t hate you now is because they don’t know. They’re friendly when they meet you, barely thinking about you afterwards. That’s what real loneliness means; not just being on your own, but having no existence in anyone else’s life. Apart from Ruth, irritated at having to fly over from France for a brother she had hardly anything to do with, and some token representative from the office, who’d be at your funeral? No one. You don’t matter … except to Giles, who’d be able to relax completely if he heard you were no longer a threat to him. But you’re not even that because you’ve never found the guts to tell the truth.

  He was starting to weep again as he closed the cottage door behind him. Who are you crying for? Not them, not even for the children. It’s for yourself and the fact that you’re an outcast … It was good talking to her in the garden, though. Almost like being with a friend for a while — and you don’t have any of those. But why did you have to stare at her tits like that? Can’t you look at a woman without seeing a body? She’s a person, she was interested, you had things in common … That’s normality. Sod it. Have some lunch and take a walk, do more writing, read some poetry, see if there’s anything to blank it out for a couple of hours on television. Get through another day.

  *

  ‘When’s the pageant?’ Ralph sounded uninterested, checking his diary as he prepared to return to London.

  ‘Not for another two weeks. Why? Surely you’re not planning to come?’

  ‘Can’t make the parade. Got a foursome arranged. I’ll come to the pig roast in the evening, though.’

  ‘Don’t put yourself out … Stand still.’ Joyce scratched her thumbnail across a dried mark on the shoulder of his jacket, wondering why she was still bothered about his appearance. But then both of them occasionally lapsed into long-abandoned habits. She brushed off loosened flakes with her hand. ‘There. Won’t you be bored? Finch is just an address, not where you live.’

  ‘I keep in touch with people.’

  ‘Like you keep in touch with me?’

  ‘Don’t start.’ The rebuttal was casual; skirmishes didn’t call for heavy artillery. ‘I’ll just go and say goodbye to Grace.’

  The magnetic letters on the fridge door, left over from Rupert and Annabel’s childhood, spelt out ‘chris conway is kool’. Who was he? No one in the village, so presumably some boy Annabel had met at a disco. Time to think about putting her on the pill, or had that stable door already been opened? Joyce suddenly felt tired of raising children, tired of coping with their increasing resentment, their impatience for escape, while still expecting everything to be done for them — and in this case with a father who agreed to whatever they wanted because that avoided arguments and responsibility. And if they got into trouble — Rupert on crack, Annabel pregnant — it wouldn’t be his fault. I was earning the money; it was your job to look after them.

  Staring at the fridge Joyce frowned as she heard Ralph come downstairs, shout goodbye and sla
m the front door. The moment lacked drama. Wasn’t there meant to be some burst of revelation, a joyous shout of defiance as she finally rebelled? Standing alone in the kitchen, she suddenly knew she wanted to have an affair and was prepared to do something that could make it happen. She felt the need for a very large drink.

  *

  Lambert read to his daughter without affection, irritated by her demands for a bedtime story.

  ‘No,’ she corrected, when he missed out a paragraph, ‘they go to the market first.’

  ‘If you know the story, why do you want me to read it?’ Unable to fight his wife, Rebecca was a soft target. ‘It’s time for bed.’ The child didn’t cry, but screamed, denied an indulgence. ‘Shut up!’

  She slid off his knee and kicked him before running out of the room, shouting for her mother. Lambert swore and went to pour himself another Scotch. The Sunday evening house was like a punishment cell, Victoria casually selecting which spot to torture next. He heard Brigitte, the Australian au pair chosen by his wife for being overweight and having a face like a brick, comfort the child and take her up to bed.

  ‘That’s done your future visiting rights a whole lot of good.’ Victoria sneered as she walked into the room. ‘Big man, aren’t you? Can’t fight me, so you take it out on a three-year-old.’

  There was no point in arguing; even when he had a case, she destroyed him. He caught a whiff of something exclusive and expensive as she stalked past and sat in the black leather button-back chair by the fireplace. She crossed her legs, high-heeled shoe dangling from the toes of her right foot.

  ‘Anyway, has what’s left of your brain managed to grasp what I said?’

  ‘I need another few weeks to find somewhere. Get the money sorted out.’

  ‘What money, sweetie?’ She held out one hand, fingers spread like a fan pointedly admiring the rings heavy and cruel as a jewelled knuckleduster.

  ‘If you’re not going to budge on what you want, I need more time.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not budging. You know the figures.’

  ‘And you know they’re impossible.’

  ‘Not impossible … just calculatedly painful. Like I meant them to be.’

  ‘A court would never give you that much.’

  ‘I don’t need a court. Daddy’s promised me your balls on a plate if you’re not a good boy — and that’s without me telling him about you raping me the other night. If I can’t squeeze the money out of you, Giles, I’ll be satisfied with seeing you in the gutter.’ She slid her fingers up and down the stem of her wine glass as she thought. ‘But money would be better. All right, you can stay here — and keep well away from me — until the end of August. If you’re not out by then, I go nuclear.’

  ‘Do you want to fucking destroy me?’

  ‘You’ve grasped it at last.’ She laughed. ‘And you’re so easy to break, Giles, so pitifully weak.’

  ‘I’m not weak!’

  She stared at him for a moment, then crossed the room and knelt in front of him, turning her face slightly to one side.

  ‘Go on,’ she invited. ‘Hit me.’

  Her eyes dared him, but there was no trace of fear in them.

  ‘And you’re not weak?’ She stood up. ‘Don’t kid yourself I’ve known it for a very long time.’

  *

  Monday morning added Ella Fitzgerald’s name to the litany. Dean Martin the previous Christmas, Gene Kelly in February, Greer Garson in April … Stars who had glittered in Oliver Graveney’s life were constantly going out, and there was a growing sense of gathering darkness. When Christopher Robin Milne had died, with painful coincidence on Oliver’s fiftieth birthday in February, it was as though even childhood was being erased. He was conscious of now turning first to the obituaries page of The Times to see if someone else he had never met but who had been part of his experience — of his existence — had gone, somehow taking another fragment of his life with them.

  He did not fear his own death, but disappointment. He was wealthy, with a handsome home, elegant, intelligent wife and beautiful daughter, but he had not had to struggle for money or privilege; they were among the prizes engraved with his name even before he bid for them. As chairman of Anglian Newspapers — taking over from his father after a token period working in advertising and circulation — he felt no more than an older version of the little boy who had all the toys, a silver BMW now replacing the expensive pedal car. His only ability was to make money, the one thing he no longer regarded as having any worth.

  ‘Good God, Julia’s getting married again.’ Fay held up the invitation that had come in the post.

  ‘I assume it’s to Andrew … You wouldn’t believe me.’

  ‘She’s mad. He’s absolutely broke.’

  Oliver began to fold the Financial Times. ‘Does that matter?’

  ‘Of course it does. Julia’s got three hairdressers and a lifestyle to support.’ Fay made a face of impatience. ‘I know you liked him.’

  ‘And he understands Julia. I told you that. When is it?’

  She looked at the card again. ‘Nineteenth of September. At a register office in Newark … Do you know where that is?’

  ‘Nottinghamshire.’ He took out his diary. ‘It’s a Thursday. I’ve got a meeting, but I can cancel it.’

  ‘And what do we buy for a third wedding present?’

  ‘You’ll think of something.’ He stood up and went to put the paper in his briefcase. ‘Are you seeing Jonathan today?’

  ‘Mmm.’ The reply was absent-minded as she opened a letter from a friend in Los Angeles, then held up her cheek to be lightly kissed. She twitched her lips affectionately. ‘Take care.’

  In the early days it had been uncomfortable, both of them learning the rules by which they had agreed to live. Seeing Jonathan meant going to bed with Jonathan, letting him supply what Oliver no longer had any interest in. Now it had become like a Bloomsbury relationship, the husband accepting the lover because he had created the circumstances; it was civilized.

  When Oliver had said he no longer wished to sleep with her, Fay had not suspected another woman or that he could be a latent homosexual. Apart from the very earliest times, she recognized that he found little attraction in sex; perhaps because it lacked any intellectual dimension or that he found its messier aspects distasteful. Pregnancy and Emma’s birth had given him an excuse to stop … and it had never started again. Before Fay’s frustration became anger, he told her his decision.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘But never mistake it for lack of love.’

  ‘But you’re still imposing what you want — or don’t want in this case — on me.’

  ‘I know. I’ve thought about that a great deal.’

  ‘And? I’m sure you’ve worked something out.’

  ‘I think so.’ For a moment she thought he was going to take her hand, but he remained on the chair opposite her by the fireplace, carefully maintaining his distance. ‘I’m assuming you’ll want to take a lover — and I accept that.’

  ‘Thank you. The milkman’s going to be a very happy man.’

  ‘Don’t cheapen this, Fay,’ he warned. ‘I’ve told you I love you, and unless you reach a stage where you no longer love me, which is the last thing I want, I expect us both to behave intelligently … I’m sorry, I’m not trying to be pompous.’

  ‘Well, I’m afraid you’re not doing very well, darling. It’s all right. I’m used to it.’ She sipped her vodka and orange. ‘Then I have your permission to become an adulteress?’

  ‘No. That involves deception, and we’ve never done that to each other. If you find a lover, I want you to tell me … and I’d like him to be someone I can respect.’

  She laughed. ‘Ralph Hetherington needn’t apply then.’

  He picked up her humour. ‘I’d be … disappointed if it was him.’

  ‘Disappointed? I’d be horrified to think I could be that desperate … Pour me another drink. I have a lot to take on board here.’

  There had been no purpo
se in arguing; Oliver never made hasty decisions and was immovable once he reached them. It was ironic. Fay had memories of more than a dozen lovers, but had taken her marriage vows seriously; this was her husband and that part of her life was over. But she was turned thirty and her appetites hadn’t gone away. One of her boyfriends had told her she had a male attitude to sex; eroticism was more important than emotions.

  But for a long time she had remained celibate, anxious that her choice should not cause damage or hurt Oliver. Jonathan was a solicitor in Ipswich, a friend of friends met at a party, unattached and amusing, instantly on Oliver’s wavelength, quoting poetry, exchanging literary anecdotes. A week later, Fay phoned him and said she would be in Ipswich on … was he free for lunch? That night, she was fixing Oliver’s drink when she told him.

  ‘Do you remember Jonathan? Alan and Jacqueline’s friend?’

  ‘Very well. I’d like to meet him again sometime. Why?’ She handed him his glass without replying. ‘Oh. I see.’

  ‘Is it all right?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Look at me, Oliver. You don’t like it, do you? Not now it’s happened.’

  He shook his head. ‘It’s not that. It mustn’t be. But … I may need to adjust … When did it begin?’

  ‘It hasn’t — well, not in that sense. But it may now.’

  ‘You needed my approval?’

  ‘Yes. That was important. All I’ve done so far is make a lunch date, but I want to see how much I really like him. If it’s enough — and he makes the first move — then …’ She knelt by his chair. ‘Listen. I promise I won’t let myself fall in love. Not the way I love you. If I ever think that’s starting to happen, I’ll end it. Jonathan may become a very special friend, but that’s it … all right?’

  ‘Thank you … I hope he’ll not consider me a fool.’

  ‘He’d better not.’ She kissed his forehead. ‘If he doesn’t respect you, then he won’t have me. I won’t let anybody harm what I value so much.’

  It had taken several casual meetings manufactured by Fay — tied in with pretended dental appointments, an imaginary friend in hospital, shopping — before anything happened, and Fay felt an overwhelming delight when Jonathan finally took hold of her hand.