by James Barlow
‘Hallo,’ he said. ‘Having a look round?’
‘I’ve been admiring the stained-glass windows.’
‘They are pleasant, aren’t they?’ the vicar said. He smiled. ‘But there’s nothing special about them. Are you interested in windows?’
‘Yes,’ I said. It was a perfect example of comparative truth: I had been interested in them for three days because they might lead me to the dark, modelesque young woman who was, Bushell had said, this man’s daughter. ‘It’s nice to return to these things,’ I added sententiously.
‘You have been abroad?’
‘To Egypt.’
‘The one good thing about the war,’ he said. ‘The young can travel. I talk every Sunday about the Egyptians, but I’ve never seen any. What are they like?’
‘Not especially nice,’ I said. ‘Poverty makes them commercially minded.’ I thought briefly of how commercially minded the Egyptians had been: of the woman in the officers’ brothel who wouldn’t accept cheques: and enjoyed the irony of the conversation.
After being carefully manoeuvred into it, the vicar asked me to tea. ‘You must meet Brian,’ he said. ‘He’s keen on glass.’
Brian, the Army padre, was also keen on the dark girl; he was sitting with her in the vicarage library when we entered. I had a nasty feeling that perhaps they were engaged, but didn’t worry unduly: the pilot’s wings, some charm and the modest admission of a few heroisms would draw that girl away from her country backwater.
The vicar introduced us. ‘This is my daughter Evelyn.’ He smiled rather firmly. ‘One of the Philistines, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh, Daddy,’ she said. ‘Just because I only come to one service a week.’
We all laughed. Good for you, I thought, and shook her small, cool hand.
‘And this is Brian.’
It was not explained who Brian was. He was beefy, pleasant, with a naïve face, and had a strong, dry grip.
‘The Flying Officer is interested in stained glass,’ said the vicar.
‘Ah!’ said Brian with dreadful heartiness. ‘And what do you think of St Mary’s?’
‘I like it very much.’
‘How do you think it compares with the Swiss?’
‘I know nothing of the Swiss,’ I said, ‘apart from their rolls.’
They all laughed. Brian would have proceeded with the stained-glass business, but the girl said, ‘Are you from the aerodrome?’
The change of subject was a relief. I made sure we didn’t return to the glass. I was introduced to the vicar’s wife, tall like her daughter, but parochial, tedious, unbearably full of good works.
During tea I managed to convey the impression I desired. After that I felt I had done enough for one day. Evelyn saw me to the front porch.
She held out her hand, rather unnecessarily. ‘I hope I’ll see you again,’ I said.
‘I expect you’ll try,’ she said. ‘You’re not very expert at the stained glass, are you, Flying Officer?’ Her eyes mocked me: the remarks were outrageous, following a polite, two-hour acquaintance, but it was as I’d thought: she knew I had not arrived by any accident.
‘I’m not very good at anything,’ I said carefully. She knew what I meant! ‘But don’t tell anybody, will you?’
‘I won’t,’ she said. ‘I’m on your side in the matter.’
But that wasn’t quite true: it took weeks of persuasion before she would share the ultimate excitements of my side of the world.
On the Sunday there was no flying and I came into the village to the morning service. Evelyn was there with her mother and Brian, and she smiled cautiously. After the service, outside the church, the girl said, ‘I have a little petrol and we’re going for a run this afternoon. Why don’t you come?’
I chose to ignore the pain and entreaty on Brian’s face and to accept eagerly. It was the last day of Brian’s leave and I marred it for him. Not that it was exciting: more conversation: but before the afternoon ended Evelyn was calling me ‘Roy’.
Evelyn and I met again, more and more frequently, following telephone calls to, and later from, the vicarage. When I knew her well enough to be sure she wasn’t concerned about anything except enjoyment – she went to church as a formality and was desperate to leave that village – I began to obtain petrol for her from the aerodrome. Then we were able to drive beyond the confines of the village.
She explained this desire to get out of the village one evening when we had driven out of it. Everyone in the village knew her and acknowledged her, of course, and she was confined there emotionally as well as physically. ‘I want to get out,’ she said. ‘It’s impossible to have even the mildest excitement and enjoyment here – a little too much laughter with a young man at the garden party and the whole village stares. They’re talking about you and me now, I suppose: why, she’s practically engaged to Brian, and as soon as his back’s turned … You know. I’m horribly trapped here. Other girls are living wonderful lives at the moment, going abroad, taking risks, meeting people … I wish I could fly, but since I can’t, then I wish I could stay out late, dance all night, make men jealous of each other, flirt a bit … I’m allowed to wear attractive clothes, but not to attract with them … Oh, my parents are kind enough, but I have to remember who and what they are.’
‘Why don’t you join up?’
‘Father’s a pacifist, of course. Brian’s my only hope.’
‘Are you going to marry him?’
‘He loves me,’ she said. ‘I like him. If it’s the only way out, I’ll take it. But that will be tedious too. He thinks it’s terribly broad-minded to have a sherry in the saloon.’
‘Perhaps,’ I said, ‘you’ll marry someone else.’
‘Don’t hint, darling,’ she said. ‘You don’t want to marry me: you want the vicar’s daughter to do things she didn’t oughta.’ But her eyes shone and I knew she’d like me to talk marriage.
‘You have a low opinion of me,’ I said.
‘Brian said something about a waitress in the village café.’
‘I abandoned her the moment I saw you,’ I said. ‘I’m no saint, Evelyn, but you’re not likely to have fun with a saint.’ I kissed her on the mouth. ‘Let’s go back in the car,’ she said. ‘It’s no fun kissing against a gate.’
In the car she leaned heavily in my arms. I could feel the warmth of her glowing through her dress, and the wild, frightened beat of her heart. Like Olwen, she was having a mental struggle to find excuses to pass from her world to mine. She moved about in fear of my touches.
‘Roy, I don’t think we should,’ she said.
‘Darling,’ I whispered, ‘aren’t you on the side of enjoyment?’
‘Is enjoyment necessarily sin?’
‘But you don’t really believe in anything.’
‘I do when I’m scared.’
‘Then why not let me–?’
She was like a small girl despite her smart clothes and model’s height and expression. ‘I’m scared now,’ she said. ‘Don’t think I’ve never been naughty,’ she went on quickly, apologetically – they always apologize for their virginity! ‘When I was at boarding school I went about with another girl. We went to dances with her brothers, and after one of them Michael – well, you know, loved me with his hands … I was too young to understand really …’
‘I’ll take you out of here,’ I said. ‘I’ll show you –’
‘Oh, darling,’ Evelyn whispered. ‘I’d love to let you, but how could I face them afterwards? My mother likes you …’
‘We could say we’re engaged.’
‘But we’re not.’
‘We could be.’
‘But, darling,’ she said, ‘you’re no saint and you might break it off.’
That was exactly what I’d intended to do
. Evelyn was no fool. I saw that then, but even so, underestimated her determination. That night, in the car, she surrendered to me, not finding it particularly enjoyable. The subsequent love-making was much better, and we enjoyed that summer very much.
One autumn afternoon she came to me, bright-eyed and near to tears, the taut look of panic on her face. Before I could greet her at all she burst out hysterically: ‘Roy, I’m scared. I think I’m going to have a baby.’ I stared at her, equally horrified, and she rushed on: ‘If you want to ditch me, Roy, tell me now. Say you had a good time but don’t like the responsibility. Don’t tell me a lot of lies and then go away. Be honest with me, so that I’m left with a reasonably pleasant memory of you.’
Her gallant words belied the cunning she had shown. She was scared now because she knew she had trapped me. If she was prepared to forgive her own pregnancy, others would not be. Her father would quite certainly see my Commanding Officer, and that gentleman, who didn’t like me, might offer me the choice of Bomber Command or the resignation of my commission (and that would have meant call-up as a soldier in the ranks). Oh, I was trapped all right. We would have to be married in a hurry. Evelyn would escape from her village all right. The bright glitter of the summer had gone. Purchased fruit is never so enjoyable as stolen, and I looked at Evelyn in something like terror. You’ll suffer for this, I thought. Nobody traps me. On the other hand, Evelyn had money coming to her; she was smart; no doubt she could cook; socially she might prove an asset. I didn’t like it at all, but I had to swallow the insult and put a good face on it. ‘You’re a bloody good sort,’ I said. ‘Why all the fuss?’
‘You mean you won’t ditch me?’
‘We’re engaged, aren’t we?’ I said. ‘We’ll be married.’
She wept now. ‘I’m a fool,’ she said through her tears. ‘I’m only a woman. I thought you’d ditch me.’
‘Not you,’ I said.
‘I’m so glad,’ she said tremulously. ‘I thought you would. Ha!’ she laughed. ‘My parents won’t be glad. Registrar’s wedding for the vicar’s daughter.’
‘Do they have to know?’
‘I told my mother,’ she admitted. ‘I was so scared, Roy.’
The old man was indeed quite ferocious when I did see him. ‘I suppose you thought you were extremely clever worming your way into our hearts via blasphemy and sin,’ he said. I wasn’t worried: clergymen, like women, rarely offer violence, and this one was a shrivelled-up little thing. I said, ‘Save it for the pulpit. I don’t believe in any of that fraud any more than I care about stained-glass windows.’ He went very pale and quiet, but whether from anger or shock I don’t know. He’d managed to lure Evelyn into his study to browbeat her, and she’d emerged very white and trembling; he had no mercy on his victim, so I didn’t pull any punches either. At least it had the good result that I’ve never been plagued by my in-laws.
I wrote to my mother, saying that I was to be married, but that Evelyn’s people were snobs who didn’t approve of me. I advised her not to come to the wedding because we were, I said, experiencing heavy air raids. I knew that would keep both my parents away: some air attacks on Birlchester in the previous year had rattled them badly. My mother wrote back, giving sixteen reasons why nobody need be a snob in front of her son, and, more to the point, enclosed a cheque for two hundred pounds.
Much to my relief, the cause of all this emotion and activity was born dead a few months later. Evelyn was upset for a while and said it was a punishment.
Chapter Four
July 30th. A quiet Saturday morning. I only had two calls to make, and then I was free to complete this record. I’ve quite enjoyed composing it. It occurred to me yesterday that I’ve not told you about the most vital day of all: when Olwen died, and why. It will take time to describe it all, and I cannot resist including two irrelevant matters, both associated with the same person. This morning I spoke to someone about the murder; in a humorous manner, I said I had done it; and she simply refused to believe me!
This was when I decided to have my eleven o’clock cup of coffee. On chance, I entered the café I visited the other day. It was practically full – middle-aged ladies treading on Pekineses and fighting ruthlessly for biscuits! There were only a few single seats available and, glancing rapidly about, I was astounded to see doe-eyes and her children. Admittedly I only entered that café because I had seen her there previously, but I hardly anticipated such extravagant luck. To find her there and at the same time own a legitimate excuse to sit opposite her pointed, arrogant, foolish face! She has rather a beaky nose and when her big, firm mouth opens she reveals too many teeth; but the general effect is attractive. Her dress sense is excellent. I found out that her name is Mrs Ransome, and that I was right about the husband: he really is in the Civil Service. I was very tempted to go on recklessly and inquire whether he was going bald, was serious and easily shocked by passion; but she is the easily-shocked type herself.
I approached the vacant seat, faced her, and said, ‘Excuse me, but is this seat available?’
Doe-eyes glanced up and blushed scarlet instantly. No doubt as to whether she remembered me or not! She spoke in her station-announcer’s twang: ‘Actually, yes. I mean, I believe so.’
‘Would you mind if I shared your table?’
‘Not at all. I mean, by all means.’
Her dialogue seemed confused, so I continued carefully, ‘It seems very crowded, but it’s rather a nice place.’
It was then that doe-eyes dropped her extraordinary hint: ‘Yes, it is actually. I come here quite often.’
The waitress arrived and I said, ‘May I have the pleasure? Perhaps the children would like some cakes?’
The girl said, ‘Mummy said we shouldn’t have cakes before dinner.’
‘Well,’ I said, smiling at doe-eyes, ‘perhaps we can persuade Mummy to change her mind.’
I gave an order, and doe-eyes said, ‘It’s terribly nice of you, you know, but you really shouldn’t …’
Her vocabulary appeared limited. I patted my briefcase and said, ‘Never mind. I can always put it down to expenses.’
‘Are you in the Civil Service?’ she asked.
‘No,’ I said purposely. ‘Something much more exciting than that.’ A pause, in which I affected to be shocked. ‘I’m sorry. Is your husband –’
She laughed. ‘I’m afraid he is.’
‘I apologize. I really know nothing about the Civil Service beyond the forms they send me.’
‘It’s really quite interesting.’ She mocked me with a glance. ‘They don’t have time for cakes and coffee on a Saturday morning.’
‘A pity,’ I said. ‘I’m all in favour of freedom, aren’t you?’
The waitress arrived before doe-eyes could offer me her views on freedom. I said to the little horror, who had begun to spread chocolate wafer all over his face, ‘What’s your name?’
‘I’m Peter Ransome,’ he said, pausing with reluctance.
‘I’m Angela,’ the girl said.
‘And I’m Roy Harrison,’ I said, laughing. ‘Now we really know each other … Are they at school?’ I asked.
Doe-eyes twisted her mouth in a grimace. ‘They don’t return until September, I’m afraid.’ She made it obvious that she was at least looking forward to freedom from her children, anyway; and I made a mental note that the affair with Brenda could be over by September.
There were occasional awkward pauses in our conversation; she had to be careful in front of her kids, I suppose. To cover one of these pauses, I looked down at a paper I’d been carrying. I commented now: ‘They haven’t caught the murderer of that redhead yet.’
Doe-eyes said, ‘Do you think they will?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘As a matter of fact, I’ve followed the case closely, and it looks as if he’s going to get away with it.’
&
nbsp; ‘My husband says the man must be mad.’
‘Rubbish!’ I said. ‘Damnably sane, I should have said. He seems to have left no tracks.’
‘A pity for the poor girl,’ doe-eyes said.
‘Oh, I don’t know. She asked for trouble, don’t you think?’
‘She was in trouble, certainly. But you can’t kill girls just because they’re – well, you know –’
‘I hope your “you” was not singular,’ I said, smiling.
‘It was a generalization,’ doe-eyes said. ‘I know you wouldn’t do anything like that.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Well,’ she said, waving her hands about slightly, ‘I mean, you’re a civil servant –’
‘But I’m not,’ I said. ‘I’m a traveller and they’re looking for a traveller …’
‘Are they?’
‘It says so in the papers.’
‘Not in mine.’
‘Well, in one of them. You see, Mrs Ransome, you presume you’re quite safe, but as a matter of fact I’m a man who goes around seducing girls and then killing them.’ I looked into her face and then at her silk-covered, strap-controlled breasts so that she would know that part of what I said was true. The two kids carried on eating chocolate wafers. Doe-eyes went red in the face, wriggled uncomfortably on her seat, and explained, ‘You’re just teasing me because you know I don’t understand these things. But you know I’m really right, don’t you?’