by Roger Curtis
They didn’t speak for several minutes. There was a question burning its way to the surface, needing the hand of courage to grab it as it emerged. The moment came.
‘Mark, if it was not just physical, what was it that gave her an advantage over me?’ She pointed to her face. ‘Before this happened?’
‘It’s a fair question. I’m not sure I can answer it. I think it’s because she was open, Sarah-Jane. You know, nothing deep. Like me really. I laugh when something’s funny. I cry when something’s sad. I don’t mix them. Because there’s nothing else there to complicate it.’
‘Do I? Complicate it, I mean?’
‘Not obviously. But there’s something there, Sarah-Jane, all the time, behind all that you do and say. I don’t know what. I don’t hear anything or see anything in particular, but I feel it. It’s like looking at something you’re afraid of through frosted glass. A little demon there that prompts you when you say something – not what you say but how you say it. It was there on the terrace by the lagoon, when we first met. It’s still there now.’
‘That’s about the longest speech I’ve heard you make. I wish I knew what you were talking about.’
‘I believe that. I wish I could tell you. I even think it would help you if I could.’
She hid her alarm behind a wall of sarcasm. ‘Then perhaps you can recommend a good exorcist!’ Mark flinched, as if the idea had already occurred to him.
‘Sarah-Jane, let me be honest with you. You know why we’ve stayed together?’
‘Tell me.’
‘Because you were beautiful, and sensuous, and desirable; and on top of that I liked you and still do.’ He paused. ‘I venture to suggest that your reasons were much the same as mine.’ He chuckled to himself. ‘With the advantage of a little cash thrown in!’
‘So where’s the difference?’
‘I don’t know. But here’s what I have to tell you, Sarah-Jane, and please don’t be offended. I don’t care anymore. I only know we can’t go on as we are.’
‘Not even with Marguerite out of the way?’ she whispered.
‘Come on, you know there will be others. Just as there were for you. You don’t imagine I didn’t know?’
‘No.’
‘Well then.’
Sarah-Jane turned and walked slowly along the corridor and up the stairs to the bedroom. She stood in front of the dressing table mirror, staring at her face, not realising that Mark had followed and was standing in the doorway. She gave a little start when she saw his reflection, but feared to turn her head. ‘So what are you suggesting? We give up?’
‘Not necessarily. Just go our own ways, until something else turns up.’
‘Then what is there for me?’
‘Medicine, Sarah-Jane. Brian has never stopped chastising me for leading you into the wilderness. I think the time has come to go back.’
‘And frighten a few more people with this?’ She pointed to her scar.
‘Think it over. No need to act prematurely. Talk to Brian.’
‘I see. Mark, I have just one wish at this moment.’
‘What’s that?’
‘From now on I’m Sarah. I think that mythical creature Sarah-Jane died this evening.’ She took her nightdress from under her pillow and a couple of token items from the dressing table. ‘If you don’t mind I think I’ll go and bury the body.’
Without turning on the light she tossed the few items she carried onto the bed in the guest bedroom. In the darkness she nearly missed it, the plain envelope, whiter even than the pillow, bearing just her name. Her heart beat faster. She had not been left out. Here must be that last expression of affection, that sharing of a common loss. ‘Oh, Marguerite,’ she whispered, ‘at least there’s one worthwhile thing left, even if it’s just a memory.’
All the envelope contained was a card, not personalised in any way, inviting the bearer to the next masked entertainment at the Massingham Tower. In disgust she threw it into the bin amongst torn-up scraps of canvass bearing still-fresh paint. Surely Marguerite had not left her that. Yet…
From the window the pool and the lawn beyond were dark rectangles under a sullen sky. She searched with her eyes as if hoping for a movement that might tell her the girl had not taken offence, or fright; had reconsidered so that tomorrow could be yet another in the chain of days that had no end.
What little breeze there had been to rustle the leaves and send ghostly ripples across the pool died. She closed the curtains. Drained of all feeling, she backed away into the cloying darkness of the room and fell onto her bed, grateful for the insidious onset of sleep.
A butterfly appeared at the window. Not a large butterfly like the one in the conservatory but in its way, when you looked closely, just as beautiful. The eyes – for it was a kind of peacock – held her in a feline stare. The wings closed, so that the hold was broken, and then opened again, just as quickly; and then the fascination became stronger still, until it had extracted an unsaid promise that they would meet again.
The house was empty as she passed through, but when she entered the garden there was the butterfly circling around Moffat’s – surely it was Moffat’s? – head; and he, with the agility of a ballet dancer, just failed to catch it with each leap he made. She with her arms wide, protecting, the threesome progressed down the lawn.
The laurels were young then and you could pass between, and buddleias grew in the spaces they didn’t yet need. The honeyed scent from the long purple racemes overcame the butterfly’s sense of caution and in a second Moffat had it in his mouth, using the same incomplete snatching movements of the jaw that in other circumstances could crush the sturdiest of bones. She walked away thinking it was dead and returned disconsolate to her room.
Then once again the butterfly alighted at the window and engaged her with the magnetism of its wings. She saw that one wing had a notch in it and an antenna was missing.
Then a question occurred to her: what would happen if the sequence were repeated? She knew that the butterfly must be weakened by what it had endured, but that did not stop her and she went down again to the garden.
This time the progression was more formal, more predictable. The wings of the butterfly no longer trembled as it encountered the heady pollen scents. It flew quite voluntarily to settle on the dog’s nose. And Moffat, for his part, did not this time snap at it, but held it lightly in his mouth.
Again she withdrew to her room and again the butterfly appeared at the window, continuing in a relentless cycle, until one day it was no longer there.
Like counting sheep, it led to a profound, fathomless slumber.
15
The worst thing was that the house was empty. Each day Sarah awoke with a feeling of remorse that – although she did not recognise it – was guiding her steadily along a path of humility and self-examination. That path skirted medicine – that is to say brushed with it because of its humanitarian content; and it kindled memories that were not wholly bad. But it passed medicine by and led her to the belief – realisation would not be factually accurate – that redemption lay in service to others.
First she tried the Croydon public library, and scanned the notice boards: Samaritans, Corcoran Trust, Shelter, Help the Aged – all possible. She went home clutching a notebook full of contacts and telephone numbers. She scoured the local papers for evidence of good deeds that she might emulate. She even travelled to town in her now familiar black hat and veil – there was no confusion with mourning – to buy a copy of the Big Issue at Victoria Station. More practical approaches hadn’t yet occurred to her.
Once home, an afternoon spent on the telephone convinced her of one thing: what these contacts expected was money, not service. They had hands enough, but funding? That was a different matter. Somehow, none of it appealed.
She lay, exhausted, on the drawing room sofa, streaks of shuttered
sunlight playing across her thin form. Gingerly, she allowed her fingertips to explore the scar; it hovered around three on her self-devised healing scale of one to ten. Not much progress, then. The piped edges of the cushions jabbed and poked at her body, however much she tried to adjust them. Forced to get up, she thrust her bare feet into her slippers and crossed the carpet to the chair opposite, then looked back to where she had been lying. The image in her head was seared by the vicious sword-thrust she had delivered to Jack Adams, someone more damaged, even, than she was now. What is better, she asked: to turn the blade upon herself or bathe the wound, making it as best she could with the talents she had? The pain of her hurtful eyes dissolved; a new self-awareness took its place. Be careful, she told herself, it may be just illusion.
It was an unwise decision to contact Brian, because he had, of his own volition, distanced himself irrevocably from the man. She knew immediately that she had judged wrongly. On the other hand some follow-through seemed unavoidable.
‘You haven’t come round to thinking Jack Adams wasn’t responsible, Sarah. What’s happened to your intelligence?’
‘I don’t believe he did it.’
‘Not did it, Sarah, was instrumental in having it done. Was that so difficult for him? That’s what you must ask yourself.’
‘I’ve nothing to lose, Brian. By talking to him about charitable work I might just learn the truth about my face.’ She turned away from him and added quietly, ‘But that’s not the reason.’
There was no response. Or, if there was one, it was to light a cigar and surround her with a halo of smoke. That seemed to defile her face even more.
An attitude of mind in some individuals blessed with intelligence and affluence can manifest itself as pity for others less comfortably endowed. Superficially it can resemble the public school mentality of superiority, where the same factors can be instrumental. In Sarah’s case there was little connection: stemming from a generosity of spirit, hers was quite unlike the ostentation of the other.
Yet it was a twinge of the first kind that Sarah experienced on Jack Adams’ doorstep. And it was augmented by shame because she had never been there before. The reason, she knew, was her previously unquestioned assumption that when Mrs Adams’ fund-raisers for her husband’s and Brian’s cause had sought her assistance she had always expected them to come to her own house. That might have been why she had seen so little of Jack Adams, who had been more of a publicist than a collector of funds.
The semi-detached house might have suggested ‘council’ were it not for the attention to shrubs and the creative artistry of the front garden. Neat rows of salvias flanked the path to the front door and meticulously pruned standard roses were precisely centred in weed-free circles in the grass.
She hadn’t really expected Jack to be in. She had prepared what she would say to Mrs Adams to lay the foundations for a meeting. But it was Jack, in his shirtsleeves, who opened the door. If he was not pleased to see her, he was not noticeably hostile either.
‘Mrs Preston, this is unexpected. You’d better come in.’
‘Mr Adams. I have to begin with an apology.’
‘There’s no need. You must have believed it all to have gone through with it.’
‘No… no. I didn’t mean that. I meant the things I said to you… well… about Clare. You can’t have forgotten.’
‘No, nor will I.’ He flapped his loose sleeves and she saw his hands were dirty. ‘I’ve just pulled the last of the King Edwards. You’ve come at the right time. Tea?’
Even in making tea there was a brisk practicality about the man. No wasted movements, not a trace of affectation. He would have behaved the same way talking over his shoulder to his dog or to his member of parliament. She felt strangely relaxed.
‘Now,’ he said, putting the cups on the table, ‘let’s start by being truthful with one another. Do you still think me guilty?’
‘I never did really. It was just… well… the evidence seemed so compelling. And I suppose I had a grudge against the world.’
‘Not the whole world, Sarah-Jane, only some of us in it.’
‘Call me Sarah, Jack. It’s plainer and simpler.’
‘It is. Plain Sarah you might be, but hardly a plain Jane. Milk, sugar… no?’ He helped himself liberally. ‘You know, Sarah, you’re right about the evidence – the letters and the ink – but a shade too incriminating if you ask me. I’ve racked my brains to explain it. Lots of people had access to the office, but my pen… that was always with me. Not only that but I’ve checked out everyone who came here – no one comes close.’ He glanced at her face and she could tell he was sorry for her. ‘But that’s not why you’ve come, is it?’
‘If I went now it would have been worth coming, Jack. But no, you’re right.’
‘So how can I help you?’
‘By finding me something worthwhile to do. That helps others. I’m tired of helping myself. Really.’
‘And you’re not ready for medicine?’
‘In time, maybe.’
‘Then I’ll think about it.’
A key was turning in the lock of the front door.
‘Lord,’ he said, ‘I didn’t expect her back that soon. You’d better prepare yourself for fireworks, Sarah. And I apologise in advance.’ To her surprise his fingers closed reassuringly over her wrist. Then he straightened up to face his mother. There was something military about his erect bearing. Something to find out about, Sarah thought.
Sarah had always been fascinated by how dramatically Mrs Adams’ expression could change without apparently moving a muscle of her face. The wide horizontal mouth, one moment a smile, became a deletion mark of hate when she recognised Sarah. ‘Jack! How could you let that woman in?’ Two paces and she was close to Sarah’s face. ‘What harm are you plotting now, you hussy. Weren’t you content to kill my Clare, then try to lock up my son, when all he had in his heart was forgiveness? My God, you’re not welcome in my house, Mrs Preston, and I’ll thank you to get out as fast as those treacherous little feet will take you.’
‘Mrs Adams, please let me…’
‘Out, out, out!’ She rushed out of the kitchen and returned with a broom. Jack, anticipating violence, leapt across to take it from her.
Sarah, frightened, saw no purpose in remaining. She looked back once to see Jack and his mother fighting for possession.
Minutes later she lay trembling in a hot bath, in an unwelcoming house in which the only sounds were of distant clocks ticking away unspent and useless minutes. It hurt her to realise, only now, that after the acquittal some restitution to the Adams family had been necessary; and not giving it accounted for, and justified, the vitriol in Margery Adams’ tirade against her. She understood at last how her indifference to people, preserved as a facet of her character since her student days, had led to all this. I’ve been a cow, she told herself. A useless demanding cow languishing in undeservedly lush pastures.
Her naked body in the bathroom mirror repulsed her. She draped a towel across her face to hide the scar, turning her head this way and that until it was right, and squinting at the now perfect image with one eye. If only Marguerite could have stayed, got to know her that little bit better, so they could have stood together like this. So close they’d come, hadn’t they? But, thinking rationally, wasn’t their relationship only a tiny segment of her sexuality, enlarged and distorted through the lens of her damaged state. Otherwise might it not have passed her by? Well, not quite, but left unexploited at any rate. As for men, there were now no takers, nor prospect of any. Not even Abel or Jed would get much pleasure from kissing that mouth. Yet if they could see her with the towel draped so…
In the litter bin the Massingham invitation was lying, message uppermost, where she had thrown it. Get the thought out of your head, she told herself, it’s not for you.
But while she sle
pt the thought took root. In insidious wakefulness, with grey light and bird song filtering through the curtains, bodies cavorted by an indigo lagoon beneath ethereal lights and sounds. Pervading everything was an indifference to identity. Then the image and its invitation faded.
On the doormat was an envelope, in familiar handwriting, with a postmark she recognised. Her fingers trembled as she opened it. It read: If you were serious in what you said – and I believe you were – you could try contacting Marcus Repton at 11 Avalon Road, Bermondsey. Good luck, Sarah. At least not local, she thought to herself.
It scarcely mattered that Mark had not been home.
She parked at East Croydon station, retrieved her hat and veil from the back seat and put them on. The journey to London Bridge was a trial, but on the bus going eastwards no-one looked towards her. She removed her hat and veil and pulled her collar lower with a twist of her hand that was almost coquettish.
Eleven Avalon Road was not a terrace house, as she had imagined, but a reclaimed derelict church – or rather gospel hall. Faint pre-first world war advertisements for Pear’s Soap and Sloan’s Liniment were still visible on a side wall above the level where bouncing footballs had turned the brickwork a uniform grey. She found Marcus Repton sitting behind a trestle table and joined the queue in front of it. The first thing she noted was that he didn’t suffer fools gladly; the second was that he was tired, with the kind of fatigue that comes with giving excessively of oneself. The exchanges across the desk were lively: sound advice demanded commitments in return. Already she felt nervous.
Then it was her turn.
‘I’ve come to help.’
‘So you have. Jack told me.’
When the last of the pavement dwellers had gone he closed the massive door and locked it. ‘You wouldn’t believe that anyone would want to come in here to steal, but they do.’ He made her coffee with powder from an unlabelled jar and water from a thermos flask. ‘Milk?’ She wasn’t given the choice of sugar.