The House on the Fen

by Claire Rayner

  He looked back over his shoulder at Harriet, malevolently.

  “Or I tells yer what, mister, you ’ang on to ’er, and I’ll call a copper, get ’er and ’er lot picked up so’s decent people can sleep safe in their beds—.”

  The tall man, his square face troubled, stared at him, and then at Harriet, standing swaying a little, tears wet on her cheeks.

  “What on earth?— What’s he talking about?” the man said to Harriet, and she shook her head miserably, tried to speak.

  “I— I wanted to find—” But she couldn’t say more because now she was crying in real earnest, her eyes full of tears, her nose running a little so that she sniffed and gulped, and she covered her face with her hands to hide her shame and her misery, her cold and her hunger. She had reached the very end of her rope, and it had snapped.

  She felt his arm across her shoulders, and he gently pulled her hands away from her face and thrust a big handkerchief in them. Gratefully she scrubbed at her wet cheeks and took deep shuddering breaths in an attempt to regain her control.

  “If you’re a crook, then I’m the Queen of Sheba’s pet poodle,” he said, and there was a hint of laughter in the deep voice.

  “Here—” He turned to the old man, who was standing with his head thrust forward, staring at them, so that he looked like a bad-tempered tortoise. As the smile came into her mind, Harriet felt hysterical laughter coming up in her. First a St. Bernard dog, now a tortoise—.

  The arm cross her shoulders tightened, helped her to retain her hard-won control, as though this man beside her knew what she was thinking.

  “Look, old chap. This isn’t anything to fuss about, you know. This poor girl is just in some sort of trouble, that’s all— lost her way, I daresay — no need to call any police to her now is there?”

  He fumbled in his trouser pocket, and there was a clink of coins as his hand went out to the old man.

  “I’ll see if I can help her sort things out, and you needn’t worry any more, hmm? Come on now, young lady—” and gently he urged her toward the door, onto the cracked steps outside.

  She heard the door bang shut behind them, the rattle of bolts as the old man secured himself against the menace of Harriet’s imagined accomplices.

  She stopped as they reached the pavement and tried to move away from her escort’s arm, still across her shoulders. Immediately he let her go, but pulled her hand into the crook of his elbow.

  “I’m sorry—” she began. “Thank you for—”

  “Be quiet,” he said firmly, but with the same hint of amusement in his voice. “Whatever else the trouble is, I’m sure of one thing. When did you last eat?”

  She shook her head.

  “I thought as much, Food first. Talk later. Come on.”

  He half led, half pushed her along the pavement, and she let him, tired out now, past thinking coherently.

  There was a public lavatory at the end of the road, just where it turned into the main thoroughfare, and he stopped and said firmly but without any offensiveness, “You look a mess. Go and wash yourself and tidy up, and then we’ll eat—”

  Obediently, she went down the tiled steps, gave thre’pence to the fat old woman sitting in her tiny overheated cubicle, and took the towel and soap she gave her. She washed, glad to get rid of the dirt that streaked her face, feeling her skin tight across of cheekbones as she rubbed it dry. She stared at herself in the mirror. Red-rimmed eyes, hair ruffled against her forehead, shiny nose.

  Well, he can’t think I’m worth picking up, she told herself bleakly. I’m safe enough on that score— and she smoothed her hair as best she cold, wishing she had a comb, a little lipstick, and then thinking confusedly that it was as well she hadn’t. Her unprepossessing appearance was her only defense, if the man waiting for her in the street above should in fact happen to be looking for a casual encounter.

  “Good,” he said briskly, as she reached the top of the steps, and he took her arm again and, saying nothing, walked her quickly along the pavements. Without hesitation, he marched her into a small restaurant, all nylon fishnet décor, with plastic sea shells stuck to the walls and pictures of sea-scapes on the menu cards, and ensconced her at a corner table.

  She tried to speak again, but he said merely, “Sshh,” and beckoned a waiter, ordering quickly.

  They sat in silence, Harriet with her head back against the wall, he quietly and methodically filling a pipe, lighting with absorption. She watched him dreamy now, as though this weren’t happening to her, as though she were watching it on a tiny distant stage. He looked up and caught her gaze, and his eyes crinked, then he too leaned back to smoke his pipe and watch her.

  The food came. Bacon and egg, crisp fried potatoes and a pile of hot buttered toast, a pot of coffee, stealing gently.

  Without a word, she began to eat, wolfing the food, and still he said nothing, just watched her. When she had finished, he grinned as she leaned back again.

  “Nothing like a good breakfast, whatever the time of day, is there?” he said.

  “Mmm,” she managed a watery smile. “Thank you. I feel— more capable now.”

  “Capable of talk?”

  “Yes.”

  He put his elbows on the table and smiled broadly. “All right then. Talk away. Who are you? And why do I find you looking like an illustration from an appeal for waifs and strays, being accused of planning robbery and mayhem against a harmless old man?”

  Chapter Three

  She was silent for a long time, so long that he laughed again a little ruefully and began to fumble in his pocket for change.

  “You don’t have to tell me a thing, if you don’t want to. I’m not trying to buy information for the price of an evening breakfast. So, I’ll settle the bill, and we’ll leave it at that.”

  “No— no, please—” she said, ashamed of her ungraciousness. “It’s not that I don’t want to explain— not exactly—”

  “But why should you? And who am I? And what has it to do with me? And am I just trying to pick you up?”

  She reddened. He had put her confused thoughts into words too easily.

  “Well, I suppose I was thinking something like that.”

  “Very proper that you should,” he said approvingly, and took his hand out of his pocky, empty. “No respectable young lady should tell anything at all to unknown gentlemen encountered in the street, no matter how harmless they may seem or how kindly their apparent motives. It’s all right when you’ve been introduced, of course. Let us, therefore, find an acquaintance we have in common to perform that vital social office.”

  He pulled an ashtray to the middle of the table and addressed it.

  “Good evening, ashtray. You are looking very well. Tell me— the quiet young lady beside you— she is well known to you? She is? Admirable. Be so good as to present me.”

  He turned the ashtray toward her.

  “Note my smoky tones,” he said, and, dropping his deep voice to an even greater depth went on, “Madam, may I present Mr. Marcus Cooper, an advertising man with far more integrity than is normally to be found in gentlemen of that persuasion? He is aged twenty-nine, in excellent health, having all his own teeth, and also, I cannot deny, an insatiable curiosity about dark-haired young ladies who show, in their wide and beautiful green eyes, a depth of anxiety— not to say misery— that stirs his long dormant chivalry to dreams of waging noble battles on their behalf. In all my long career as an ashtray, I have never met a gentlemen so complete trustworthy when it comes to distressed ladies. I most earnestly entreat you, ma’am, to confirm your problems to him.”

  His voice returned to normal and, looking avery directly at Harriet, he added, “He won’t let you down. Not all men are as— bad— as the one who had hurt you so much.”

  She was torn between foolish laughter at his nursery humor, so well adapted to her need for such comfort at this moment, and the shame she felt. To have behaved so childishly, to have wept, to have allowed herself to be fed at this stranger�
��s expense, was shaming. But he had a depth of understanding that warmed her, tempting her to throw all her problems on to his square shoulders. But she tried to behave light-heartedly, like an adult capable of coping unaided.

  “How do you know I’ve been hurt by a man? Maybe I just— lost my way, as you said. Or maybe I’m a wicked woman, the way that old St. Bernard’s tortoise said—”

  He grinned in ready comprehension.

  “He looked a bit like a codfish, too— those goggly eyes, all wet and bulgy— and he was certainly as stupid as a codfish. No one who wasn’t stupid could imagine for a moment that you were wicked. As for the roof of your trouble, whatever it is, being a man— well, of course it is. You’re too young and attractive— in spite of the way you look at the moment— for it to be anything else.”

  She put her hand up, woman-like, to smooth her hair, and he smiled again.

  “Your husband?”

  “How?— Oh. My ring.”

  “Yes.” He leaned over and took her left hand in his. “The ashtray didn’t tell you of my well-know perspicacity. Let me demonstrate. You have been married a long time— oh, around four, five years? You have no children— and you are very— unhappy.”

  “Not difficult, I suppose,” she said, pulling her hand back and looking, as she had done, at the well-defined line her wedding ring her wedding ring had left on even her thin finger. “Though you can’t see here that I have no children or that I’m unhappy.”

  “You lack that certain air of— maturity— that goes with maternity. You must be about— oh, twenty-two or three? Unless you married at sixteen, which I doubt. You look sixteen now, in some ways but not all. You’ve— suffered too much for sixteen, haven’t you? That’s what I mean about your unhappiness. You look— wrapped in misery.”

  She decided then, quite suddenly, to trust him, so that she found herself telling him the whole story. Almost without being aware of starting it.

  He listened, never taking his eyes from her face, showing no response except when she described her train journey. Then he allowed his lips to quirk and nodded approvingly.

  When she had finished he said in a matter-of-fact voice, “Certainly a complicated problem. We must start to seek a solution from the beginning. First, we must find you a—”

  “You believe me, then?”

  He opened his eyes wide. “Why shouldn’t I? Aren’t you telling me the truth?”

  “Yes— yes, of course, But I— I don’t know ” She fumbled for words. “Telling it— it sounds so— crazy, doesn’t it? I almost find it difficult to believe myself. I mean— why should Jeffrey say I wasn’t his wife? And why should someone else pretend to be me? And how could she do it so well that Jeffrey accepts her?”

  “That part of the problem must be solved later,” he said firmly. “First things first. Somewhere for you to sleep tonight, at any rate. We can discuss the rest in the morning—”

  She opened her mouth to speak, and he laughed and flicked his fingers at the waiter to bring the bill.

  “Don’t worry. I am not going to whip you off into a Fate worse than Death. I’ll sleep at my club tonight and send you to my sister at our flat— I usually live there, but tonight I’ll stay away. That should soothe your justifiable alarms, hmm? And tomorrow— tomorrow, we’ll go to Thaxham and see what we can find out—”

  “No!” Her violent response surprised her, and she dropped her voice, embarrassed.

  “No. I suppose I’d like to know the answers, in an academic sort of way, but— I’m free, now. Free. And I’m never gong back to Thaxham, no matter what. Let Jeffrey and his impostor— if that’s what she is— let them dree their own weirds. I’m free— “He didn’t look up from the money he was counting out for the waiter.

  “You silly child. You’re anything but free, can’t you see that? You are a very encumbered person indeed. But we’ll talk about it tomorrow. Come on.”

  He stood up, and she stared up at him, alarmed again.

  “We are gong to make a telephone call,” he said patiently. “See? Over there? A telephone— and not even in a booth, so you can hear every word I say, and that without being crushed in unseemly proximity to my person. Come on—”

  She stood beside him as he dialed, listening to every word he spoke. He watched her, never taking his eyes from her face, so that she felt suddenly shy again.

  “Sue? Marcus. Mmm. Now, listen, and don’t talk till I give you permission. I have a friend in need of help— a room for the night. I’ll sleep at the club. Give her my room and dig out one of your nightdresses for her— oh, and a spare toothbrush. She’s lost her luggage. I’ll put her in a taxi, and I want you to wait downstairs for her. She’s a shy type— mightn’t be able to bring herself to ring our bell— even if she could find it—”

  He smiled at Harriet, who reddened again. “Mmm? Never mind. Private joke. I’ll explain sometime. All right?” He listened for a while. “You’re a great girl sister Sue, but she doesn’t need any supper. We’ve just had breakfast— she’ll be along in about ten minutes— What? Oh. Harriet Darnell— yes. She is just as nice as her name. Take care of her for me, Sue— and I’ll be home for breakfast— about nine. What? So I’ll take a day off! Bye—”

  He hung up and smiled again.

  “Right. Now, to find two taxis, one for you, one for me. You’ll like Sue. Sensible type.”

  He put her into a taxi and spoke to the driver quietly, paying him in advance. As the driver sat stolidly waiting for him to close the door on her, he stood, hands in pockets, his dark gold hair glinting above his turned-up collar.

  “Goodnight, lady in distress. I’ll see you in the morning. Sleep well.”

  “I—” She sat on the edge of her seat, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, staring at him, and then, impulsively, held out her hand.

  “Good night. And thank you.”

  He took her hand and raised it slightly, as though he were about to kiss it, and then stopped and held it in both of his for a moment before letting go.

  “Goodnight.” He closed the door on her, and the driver let in the clutch and pulled from the curb. She turned in her seat, to watch him through the blue glass at the rear window as he stood foursquare on the pavement, and raised her hand in a sort of nervous wave. But he didn’t see it, and, obscurely grateful for the fact, she sank back in the cold leather seat and closed her eyes.

  The journey was short, and she opened her eyes, almost startled, when the cab stopped outside a tall block of flats.

  There was a girl standing in the well-lit doorway, a small girl with the same dark gold hair and friendly blue eyes as Marcus, and she came bouncing forward as the driver opened the door, and Harriet got out.

  “Harriet? Hi. I’m Sue Cooper. Nice to know you, Come on. Bath’s just about ready—”

  “How do you do?” Harriet said stiffly, and then, aware of the absurdity of this formal greeting, laughed. Sue laughed too, and tucked her hand into the crook of Harriet’s elbow.

  “It is an odd way to meet, isn’t it? But don’t worry— we can talk tomorrow. You look dead on your pins—”

  She peered closely at Harriet when they got into the lift and it was purring on to the fourth floor.

  “You poor lamb— you really have been through it, haven’t you?— no— don’t say a word. Marcus phoned again after he’d put you in a cab, and threatened all sorts of horrible things if I dared to ask you a single question or let you do anything but take a bath and go to bed. He’s a nice brother, but I know when he means what he says— come on.”

  They are alike, Harriet thought, finding security in the realization of the undoubted relationship between Marcus and Sue. She looked like him, even sounded like him, with the same use of the friendly “Come on” to urge her along the way she wanted her to go.

  The flat was small and comfortable, furnished in a vaguely nineteen-thirties style. As she bustled about, showing Harriet the bathroom, giving her a new toothbrush and a blue nylon nightdress showing her
the small bedroom at the end of the hallway, Sue chattered busily.

  “Don’t look too closely at the décor. It’s too dingy for words. But we didn’t want to bother buying furniture, and this flat came furnished like this, so there it is. Looks like a set from a William Powell and Myrna Loy movie, doesn’t it? Not that I’ve see many of them, but I go to the classic cinemas sometimes, when the men in my life are in funds, which isn’t often— Look, you have a good wallow— that’s my toothpaste there, and there’s some talcum powder here— and I’ll make you a hot drink—”

  Harriet bathed in blissful comfort, letting the hot water wash away her last shred of fear as well as the stiffness and dirt of her journey, and when she had dried and powdered herself and put on Sue’s nightdress— which was considerably too short for her— washed her nylon underwear and stockings. The next day would be easier to face in the comfort of clean clothes.

  Sue tapped on the door just as she had finished and shook her head disapprovingly at the little heap of wet garments.

  “I was going to do those for you. Look let’s have them here and I’ll dry them in the kitchen— then they’ll be ready for morning. I’ll press the skirt too—”

  She looked at Harriet’s crumpled blouse and tutted.

  “You’ll need this washed and ironed too— no, for heaven’s sake! I’ve got a few bits of my own to do— this won’t take a second— and I can iron it dry, and air it overnight. Now, bed— come on—”

  Although she had shard a bedroom with Jeffrey for five years, the maleness of Marcus' room embarrassed Harriet for a moment. It was tidy, but things like stud boxes, hair brushes, ties and large battered slippers made him seem suddenly there with her.

  Susan tucked her into bed as though she were a child, standing over her as she obediently drank the steaming hot chocolate she brought, then turned the lights off at the door.