Victims

by Richardson,Robert

  ‘Yeah. I’ll be there.’

  ‘I’ll see you this evening, then. Anyway, I’d better do a last circuit.’

  Fay was looking over at them both as they separated; she’d been unable to hear anything they had said, but there had been an urgency, even hostility, in the way Joyce was speaking and the way she had stood. Jowett watched as Joyce passed through the remaining crowds, patting a dog, kissing some couple she knew, skirts held wide as she curtseyed to a group of people who applauded. Thoughtfully, Fay walked over to him. ‘Have you enjoyed yourself?’

  ‘What?’ His attention was snapped away by Fay’s question. ‘Yes. I like old traditions. Thank you for … you know … showing me round. Joyce … Mrs Hetherington … says you and your husband will be here tonight.’

  ‘Yes. It’s primitive, but amusing.’ Fay plucked a stray strand of grass from her shirt. ‘Joyce tells me you’re leaving in a couple of weeks. Do you think you’ll come back?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘We’ve certainly got plenty of peace and quiet for writing … Excuse me, my husband wants me. See you this evening.’

  As she joined Oliver Fay caught a glimpse of Joyce, her long skirt raised as she walked up the slope towards the gate on the road near her house, almost as though she were running away.

  *

  Joyce dashed upstairs and into the bathroom, panting as she locked the door and leant her back against it as if to secure privacy. The panic about Jowett’s absence had been senseless, her rebukes and questions about another woman irrational. He wasn’t hers to own, but, greedy and demanding, she wanted to own him. No, something more intangible than owning. Have, take pleasure in possessing, feel wanted by, share pleasure with, be part of his life, laugh with … love.

  ‘Christ.’ She pushed herself away from the door and pulled down the zip at the back of her dress and let it fall so that welcoming cool air stroked her body. In the shower cubicle she held her head back as stinging water pelted her skin, cupping her hands to wash her face as steam misted about her. I’m forty-four and he’s twenty-seven; I’ve adored what we’ve done, but he’s going away in two weeks and that’s it. I am too old — and supposed to be too intelligent — to start behaving like a besotted teenager. She stopped the shower and stepped out, towelling herself dry with a fierce impatience. Stupid, half-witted, thick, idiotic … Abruptly she sobbed, gripping the towel in frantic fingers as if to grasp something real. The thought of ending it was intolerable and allowing it to continue was terrifying.

  *

  Garden flares set up around the crackling pig were lit as twilight seeped into the heated evening; blossoming orange flames that spun curls of ghostly smoke and cast quivering shadows. Big-band swing beat out of loudspeakers, unheard over chatter and laughter. Children squealed with delight as they rolled down the incline of the darkening meadow and scrambled back to the top again. Ralph was with Joyce now, eating roast pork, rye bread and warm salad off plastic plates next to Fay and Oliver and Jowett on travelling rugs beneath the trees.

  ‘Who supplied the pig?’ Ralph asked as he chewed.

  ‘Trevor,’ Fay replied. ‘The family always does.’

  ‘Didn’t know they kept pigs.’

  ‘They don’t. He buys it from someone.’

  ‘Good business to be in at the moment, pigs. No BSE scares. Only eat beef now if it’s Aberdeen Angus. Know it’s safe. Decent of Trevor, though. He’s a diamond, that man.’

  His voice was slightly fuzzy; he’d started at the golf club, had insisted on a top-up before setting out and was now drinking beer. Joyce looked past him to Oliver, his pale face and thinning fair hair catching the flames, grey eyes observant and intelligent. He and Randall would get on so well … in fact they did already, discussing literature, comparing life at sixties Oxford and eighties Cambridge. Then Ralph interrupted, asking Oliver about advertising deals.

  ‘We do discounts for the group and for bookings on five editions or more. Otherwise, it’s what the rate card says.’

  ‘Come on, the rate card’s just the starting point. Even Murdoch’s lot can be talked down.’

  ‘We don’t operate like that. Why are you interested, anyway?’

  ‘Got a client who’s thinking about using the provincials.’

  ‘Then call my advertising people.’

  Ralph grunted. ‘We could always use local radio. You can’t rip people off just because you’ve got a bloody press monopoly.’

  ‘I don’t rip anyone off, Ralph. I just run an efficient company.’

  Joyce felt embarrassed; Oliver was a friend — to her, a good friend — but Ralph had a distasteful gift for turning any conversation into a display of boorish aggression. Oliver turned to Randall again, asking if he had read Pat Barker’s Great War trilogy, deliberately cutting out Ralph whose taste only reached macho airport blockbusters. After a few moments Ralph stood up and walked away, greeting someone with boisterous enthusiasm as though his evening had been made by meeting them.

  ‘Hello. May I join you?’ Holding a plastic plate, wine glass and paper napkin, Sheaffer had appeared behind Oliver. ‘I was looking for the Godwins, but they don’t seem to be here.’

  ‘They never come,’ Fay said. ‘Pull up a toadstool. Did you meet Joyce this afternoon?’

  ‘Only briefly.’ Sheaffer sat down as Jowett made room for her on the rug and smiled at Joyce. ‘You were Lady Marion.’

  ‘They’ll rope you in for it one day,’ Fay warned.

  ‘Miss Merriman has already asked me.’ Sheaffer smiled. ‘She seemed very keen.’

  ‘The pageant looms very large in her legend … You’d be perfect though. Traditionally, she was a blonde.’

  ‘I said I’d think about it.’

  ‘She’ll take that as a definite yes.’

  ‘Do you live alone?’ Joyce asked.

  ‘Yes.’ Sheaffer caught a trickle of grease on her lips with her napkin.

  ‘Haven’t you got a boyfriend to share it with?’

  ‘Not at the moment.’

  Fay tapped Joyce’s ankle with her shoe. ‘Help me get more drinks.’

  Joyce began walking towards a trestle table covered in wine bottles, but Fay took her arm and led her to where they were alone outside the ring of flares.

  ‘What is it?’ Joyce asked.

  ‘Partly, I wanted to stop you grilling that girl before you made a fool of yourself. And I want to talk about what’s happening to you.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Yes you do, darling. You’re in over your head with Randall.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘Don’t say that and immediately turn away from me … You’re frightened that you’re in love with him, aren’t you?’

  ‘No … yes.’ She looked straight at Fay. ‘Help.’

  ‘You want logic?’

  ‘I don’t think it’ll work, but try me.’

  ‘OK. You met him — what is it? — three weeks ago. He’s dishy, polite, intelligent, sensitive and probably magic in the sack. But you told me this afternoon that you still know hardly anything about him and he’s a hell of a lot younger … Do you need diagrams?’

  ‘I know all that. Grant me some intelligence.’

  ‘Then show some.’ Fay was impatient with concern. ‘For God’s sake, this could all be an act! He’s writing his book when you wander in, take your clothes off and say pretty please. You’re probably one of his characters by now. An attractive lonely woman in a lousy marriage gagging for him. It’s cliché time in fantasy land.’

  ‘It’s not like that.’

  ‘You mean you don’t want it to be.’ Fay shook her head in frustration. ‘Please! There’s nowhere for it to go.’

  ‘I said logic wouldn’t work.’ Joyce sobbed slightly, then swallowed. ‘You’ve got Oliver and Jonathan, and I’m in a sodding strait-jacket with Ralph and my mother!’ She grasped Joyce’s hands as they fell away from her. ‘Look it’s not the sex … all right, that�
��s part of it … but it’s because I misunderstood my needs. I thought I could find myself, have a life again by fighting back. What I didn’t realize was that I really wanted someone to love me.’

  ‘And does he love you?’

  ‘He told me he does.’

  ‘And you believed him?’ Fay arched one eyebrow.

  Joyce sighed. ‘Not really. He said it the first time we made love … but today I realized I love him. Too bloody much.’ She gave a small grin. ‘So what’s logic got to do with it?’

  ‘Oh dear.’ Fay shook her head. ‘All right. I’ll be around when you land, but you may have to crash and burn.’

  ‘Is it totally hopeless, then?’

  ‘Think about why you’re asking me that … Come on. Let’s get those drinks before you become paranoid about him inviting that blonde back to the cottage for a nightcap.’

  Sky purple was deepening through indigo to black, the plump pig a butchered carcass, the flarelights dwindling, occasional silhouetted figures slipping away, fading voices calling goodnight. Oliver and Jowett were now discussing overseas investments. Fay sat, her skirt covering crossed legs, watching Jowett’s face; Joyce sat facing away from them, gazing into the gloom, conscious that Sheaffer was still there, silent and listening.

  ‘… but would you recommend it?’

  ‘Not to make money. You’ll be lucky to come out with four per cent.’

  ‘I’m not worried about that. I like the things they invest in. I’ll speak to my broker. Thank you.’ Oliver looked at Joyce and his wife. ‘You two are very quiet.’

  ‘We’re dumbstruck at the feet of such wisdom,’ Fay said impishly, then turned to Sheaffer. ‘What made you move to Finch?’

  ‘I was brought up in a village. I like the quiet.’

  ‘That’s why Randall’s here. It helps the creative process. He’s writing a book.’

  ‘Really?’ Sheaffer looked at him. ‘What’s it about?’

  It was the inevitable question; Jowett wished he’d never mentioned it, found another reason. At least he now had an answer prepared.

  ‘It’s difficult to explain. If it’s ever published, you’ll see what I mean.’ Perversely it was true — and sufficient excuse to deflect.

  ‘You must let me know when it comes out,’ Oliver said. ‘I’ll want to buy a copy.’

  ‘He’ll expect you to sign it,’ Fay added. ‘Actually, we’d all like one, then we can show off if you win the Booker prize.’ She finished her wine. ‘Anyway, it’s getting chilly. Take me to my carriage, I’m hideously bored.’

  Jowett felt instantly depressed. At some point in the previous hours his mind had closed off the past and there had been soft undercurrents of contentment. The evening had seemed detached from reality, an enchanted pastoral scene in a play, a village Arcady … but it had only been men talking sport and cars, cracking jokes as they drank beer, women discussing their children and social lives, a teenager being sick in the bushes, a faint stench from the portable lavatories, greasy litter. No enchantment; just a night out in a field eating pig. And now it was over. He stood up. ‘It’s been a great evening. Thanks.’

  ‘You must come and have a drink with us while you’re here,’ Oliver said. ‘We’re the house next door but one to Joyce. I still think you’re wrong about Forster, incidentally.’

  ‘He’ll talk books for ever if you let him,’ Fay warned. Jowett smiled, uncertain how he should respond.

  ‘I’ll see you to the gate,’ Joyce said. ‘I might find Ralph.’

  And really I don’t want you leaving with this much younger woman who lives alone.

  ‘I’m sorry I’ve hardly spoken to you, and we can’t talk now,’ Joyce found it difficult to wait until they were out of earshot. ‘Here.’ She pressed a folded square of paper into his hand, moving away immediately.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Directions for tomorrow night. Nobody will see you.’

  He closed the note in his fingers. ‘You’re sure it’s all right?’

  ‘Of course it is. Rupert and Annabel are both away on school trips and Ralph always leaves for London by … Christ, there he is. I’ll have to go. Goodnight, darling.’

  She turned towards where she had seen her husband and Jowett walked on alone, waiting until he was out of the field and past the church before reading the note by the light of a streetlamp.

  Take the path at the back of the cottage and follow it round the field until you reach a holly hedge. The gate in that opens into our garden. Ralph usually leaves at six, but wait until seven, just in case. If there’s a handkerchief on the ground just inside the gate, come back later. I’ll have supper ready for you. I love you. Joyce.

  PS Better burn this. Or am I getting neurotic?

  *

  ‘You’re very thoughtful.’ Oliver stepped to one side to let Fay pass as he opened the front door. ‘What is it?’

  She switched on the onyx table lamp. ‘Top secret this. OK?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Joyce is having an affair with Randall. She told me this afternoon.’

  ‘Good God. He’s —’ Oliver stopped himself. ‘No, that’s irrelevant. But they hardly know each other.’

  ‘They do in the biblical sense … and now she says she’s in love with him. But she’s a learner driver on this course.’

  ‘So do you think she is? In love?’

  ‘Love?’ Fay was checking her hair in the hall mirror. ‘I don’t know. Certainly obsessed. What worries me is that she’ll get badly hurt. What did you think of him?’

  ‘I liked him. Bit reserved at first, but once he started talking he was very good company. It crossed my mind as to why he’s here on his own.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Fay sounded dubious. ‘Joyce’s original theory — before she got involved — was that he was getting over something. Could have been a love affair; could have been someone dying.’

  ‘Whichever way, he’d be vulnerable.’

  ‘Yes … like Joyce. It’s a gruesome twosome.’

  ‘What does she know about him? I found him … evasive in some ways. He didn’t want to talk about himself.’

  ‘That’s struck Joyce too, but … well, it’s a pleasant change from Ralph.’

  ‘Do you think he suspects?’

  ‘Don’t be silly, darling. Ralph’s too bloody conceited — and he’s got too much of a hold over her. But there’s no reason he should ever know, so that’s not the problem.’ She sighed. ‘Joyce probably needed an affair — and deserved one — but not like this. I should have found someone for her.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  Warm night breeze seeped through soft billows of net curtains at the open window as Joyce lay beside Jowett; her head supported on her bent arm, she was twirling locks of his hair into black twists with her free hand. They were both naked. He’d been concerned about her mother being in the house, but Joyce had assured him she would go straight to bed after watching television in her apartment and hear nothing. Even so, she had muffled her cries of ecstasy.

  ‘Have you got a middle name?’ She frowned in irritation as a curl refused to stay in place, licking her fingers and wetting it.

  ‘I’ve got two. Howard Unwin. The Unwin’s a family surname. You?’

  ‘Davinia,’ she murmured, concentrating. ‘I keep very quiet about it. You’re privileged … Damn! Your hair’s impossible.’

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Trying to turn you into a Greek god … Lie still. Are you Greek? Well, something like that. The first thing I thought when you arrived was that there might be Mediterranean in you somewhere.’

  ‘My father’s grandmother came from Florence.’

  ‘So I was right … and I adore Florence.’

  ‘You’d say that if she’d come from anywhere.’

  ‘Not anywhere. I’d draw the line at Workington … There.’ She sat up and examined him. ‘Now, let me think. My mythology’s rusty. Apollo?’

  ‘He tried to rape Daphne.’


  ‘Lucky Daphne.’

  ‘But Gaea turned her into a bay tree to stop him.’

  ‘Unlucky Daphne.’ She rubbed the false curls away affectionately. ‘I love it that you know things like that. Ralph could only name a Greek if he played football or ran a restaurant in Soho … Hell, I didn’t want to mention him. Sorry.’

  ‘It’s all right.’

  ‘I wish it was … I’ve got a challenge for you. Who said, “Marriage is an unsuccessful attempt to make something permanent out of an incident”? Come on, my clever English graduate.’

  ‘I don’t know. Wilde? Shaw?’

  ‘Too obvious, and both wrong.’

  ‘How about Saki? Mark Twain?’ She looked gleeful at the prospect of defeating him. ‘Was it a woman? Liz Taylor?’

  ‘It should have been, but no.’ She laughed and pulled his ear. ‘One more guess or there’s a forfeit.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I’ll think of something.’

  ‘Was it someone famous?’

  ‘Relatively famous … Big clue there.’

  ‘OK … erm … I can’t think … Tolstoy.’

  ‘No! I win! It was Albert Einstein. I told you relatively was a clue. Right. Forfeit.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Go down to the garden — exactly as you are — and pick me a rose.’

  ‘But I’ve got nothing on.’

  ‘So? It’s not cold.’

  ‘Somebody might see me.’

  ‘Not in the back.’ She rolled away from him. ‘On your way. Be careful of the thorns.’

  ‘It’s ridiculous.’

  ‘It’s fun.’

  And I want fun, you idiot; I want you to let some light into this. Come back with the rose between your teeth and make love to me again — but without the bloody angst afterwards … Christ, I wish you didn’t make me feel you were the other half of me.

  ‘What colour?’

  ‘There are yellow ones edged with pink on the bushes just beyond the pool. Solitaire. They’re my favourite at the moment.’

  ‘OK.’ He swung his legs on to the floor. ‘Won’t be long.’

  ‘I’ll still be here.’