by Ruth Rendell
“All I want now is your phone number.”
“What for?”
“Like I said, you haven’t heard the last of me.”
This number she also committed to memory, but as soon as Ismay had gone she wrote it down along with the pin number and the card’s start and expiry dates. Getting home took a long while, but once she was there she rooted through the stack of mail-order catalogs that had come through her letter box in the past week.
Half an hour later she had spent two thousand pounds on a bathroom cabinet in a flatpack, a lifetime’s supply of pastel-blue bed linen and towels, six cashmere sweaters, four pairs of trousers, two suede jackets, and, for Barry, a framed picture of a sultan in turban, surcoat, and scimitar, gazing into the eyes of a maiden in a sari. On second thought, she also ordered him a silk dressing gown printed with Indian dancers.
Chapter Twenty-four
That pure perfect happiness was gone. It had lasted no more than a few hours. Trying to look at the situation dispassionately, Ismay knew this was Andrew’s fault, not hers. Nor had it anything to do with Edmund and Heather. They had done nothing but selflessly stay in the upstairs flat to look after Beatrix when they would have greatly preferred to move into their own new home. Andrew had made her afraid of him. Without overtly threatening her, he had made it plain that Edmund and Heather were so obnoxious to him that he wouldn’t remain under the same roof with them. While still believing they were living in Crouch End, a great distance from Clapham, he spoke of them often, referring to Edmund as “that male nurse” and to Heather as “your little gorgon of a sister.” Ismay protested but not very strongly.
Though he was there almost every night, he still hadn’t moved in, but she was afraid all the time that he would find out that Heather and Edmund were living upstairs. Having tried unsuccessfully, she was now deeply ashamed of having made her sister think that she would like them to be gone. She remembered painfully Heather’s hurt reaction, her suppressed indignation. Never again would she hint at what she wished for, yet she increasingly wanted it so powerfully that she felt her desire must show itself without words. She dreamed of Andrew’s finding out and created for herself fantasies of his anger and the accusations he would make of deceit, lying, and prevarication.
Then there was the Marion Melville threat. She had heard no more, but the first week wasn’t yet over. Every time the phone rang she thought that was who it was. If Andrew found out the nature of the threat, that a tape was in existence in which Ismay had spoken of her sister’s causing the death of their stepfather, he might not be surprised—he hated Heather enough to believe it without difficulty—but he would cut himself off from the Sealand family. He might not go to the police, though it was likely he would, but he would never see Ismay again. She knew that as forcefully as, more forcefully than, she knew of the rage he would feel and show if he discovered the presence in the house of Heather and Edmund.
Yet he had been seductively sweet to her since he came back—not that she needed seducing. Every day red roses arrived, one on the first day, two on the second and so on. The chrysanthemums had soon died. His lovemaking was better than it had ever been, as if there had been no Eva, and he gave the impression of being, and always having been, entirely monogamous. He took her out to dinner to places she would have thought far beyond his means. He laughed at her protests.
“Nothing is too good for you, my darling,” he said, and then, quoting something and in a mock dramatic tone, “‘All that I have is thine.’”
When they were about to go out, while she waited for him, she stationed herself in the hall, listening for movement from upstairs, hoping with all her strength that one of them wouldn’t appear down the stairs or enter by the front door, but not knowing what she would do if they did. She pictured herself falling on her knees to Edmund, begging him to hide himself, and his acquiescent if contemptuous shrug. As for Marion—suppose he answered the phone and she lightly hinted at her purpose in calling. A light hint which, to others might pass over their heads, would immediately be seized upon by Andrew, dissected, and give rise to inquiries she felt it would kill her to answer.
Marion would phone. Somehow she knew it. Added to her anxiety was the beginning of money worries. She didn’t earn enough to stand that sort of strain on her resources. Yet the thought of saying no to Marion, of telling her, as the melodramatic phrase has it, to do her worst, was unthinkable. If I lose him again it will kill me. I shall die.
The next day, again a Saturday, when Andrew was back in Fulham, packing his things for the move, though she told herself she wouldn’t seek Edmund out, she stayed where she could hear his tread on the stairs and when she did came out into the hall.
“So you and Andrew are together again,” he said but smiling, looking pleased for her.
“Yes.” Impossible after that opening to say what she had meant to. But she stumbled on awkwardly, “I’ve got a week’s holiday owing to me. I could take it from Monday week if you like and then you and Heather…”
“Heather told me how you felt,” he said.
You tell each other everything, she thought. Without effort, without fear. How lucky you are. She said nothing but, turning away her eyes, feared she might start to cry.
He put his arms around her and hugged her tightly. “We’re going on Thursday. Heather’s found a carer till Pam comes back.”
The doorbell rang. It was the delivery man bringing Andrew’s eight red roses. She held them to her face, their velvety coldness, their scent as of fresh wet leaves. A thorn scratched her cheek. As she went back into the flat the phone was ringing. She knew it was Marion before she picked up the receiver.
“Is he there? I wouldn’t want to be the cause of making you any sort of…” This was one of those sentences Marion couldn’t cope with and she began again. “I wouldn’t want to embarrass you. I can call back.”
“He isn’t here,” Ismay said.
“Right, then, there’s another hundred owing.” As if she were a legitimate debt collector, Ismay thought. “I could come over or we could meet.”
I don’t want her in my home again. She contaminates it. Anyway, Andrew may come. I don’t know long he’ll be fetching his stuff. Seb’s got a car. Seb may drive him and it won’t take long. A bold idea came to her. “Why don’t I come to you?”
Of course she wouldn’t want that. “I’ll meet you in the middle of Hungerford Bridge at eleven.”
Ismay had read enough thrillers and seen enough TV dramas to know that, to safeguard themselves, blackmailers should take precautions against their victims bringing the police with them to venues. It would be wiser, for instance, for her and Marion never to meet again, but for the money to be placed by her where Marion could collect it. She should have been asked for the notes to be in three (or even four) different denominations and taken from separate cash dispensers. This carelessness or ignorance on Marion’s part told her that her blackmailer was naïve or inexperienced at this kind of work or both, but she had to face the fact that it made no difference. She would no more have brought the police into this than she would Andrew.
Luckily (and strangely, since he paid for all their entertainment and extravagances), while she and Andrew had been apart she had spent less money than when he was with her. Perhaps it was because he wasn’t there to admire her hair or any new clothes she might have bought. The result was that for a time she could meet Marion’s demands. But not for long, not for months…. She shuddered at the thought. Yet she must. Andrew must never in any circumstances hear that tape. Marion, she acknowledged, had picked her victim wisely, more astutely than she knew.
“I haven’t got any money,” said Marion. “It’s no use asking me. There isn’t any gin either. I’ll be frank with you, Fowler. At present I’ve got a hundred pounds a week to live on and that’s all. I’ve got the council tax to pay and the water charge, whatever they call it. You wouldn’t know about these things.”
“When we were little you gave me all your po
cket money one week because I wanted a Bounty Bar. You lent me one pound sixty-five to buy Ma a birthday present.”
“Yes, and I’m still waiting to have it back.”
“Where’s the hundred quid coming from? Your old chap?”
“Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies,” said Marion. “You can stay here tonight if you want, but there’s no drink in the place and nothing to eat but baked beans.”
On her way to Embankment tube station, she rather regretted the impulse that had resulted in her offer. What if Barry brought her home? She would worry about that later. In the hall at the top of the escalator she watched her ticket vanish into the machine and wished it had been a return. Could she walk back? It was a very long way.
Lying in her path, ignored by everyone else, was the orange-colored plastic case of the Freedom Pass. Marion picked it up and walked purposefully to the ticket window as if about to hand it in. This of course she had no intention of doing but, sure she was the cynosure of no eyes, veered around toward the exit. Inside the case was the pass, the “oyster” card itself, and the identity card, issued to those over sixty and ensuring them free travel on tube trains, buses, and suburban line trains in the capital.
Luckily for her, this one was for a woman, a dark-haired woman looking years younger than her age. Must have been taken when she was about thirty, thought Marion. Loath as she was to add nearly twenty years to her age, she recognized that needs must when the devil drives. Besides, no one looked at your picture when you used the pass, she had noticed that, and noticed too that getting on buses, people didn’t need to do more than wave it at the driver.
Ismay was already waiting in the middle of the bridge. It was, as usual, crowded with people. She didn’t speak, so Marion didn’t. She handed over an envelope. It might be a bit risky to count it with all these people about, but Marion just took a peep inside to check it was all there.
“It’ll have to go up next time,” she said. “I said we shall have to see and I’ve—well, I’ve seen. A hundred’s not enough. I can’t live on it.”
“How much?” Ismay asked meekly.
“I’ll phone you when I’ve decided.”
Ismay turned her back and walked across to the South Bank. Feeling good, Marion contemplated the river in the morning sunshine, the London Eye, the Palace of Westminster, and the Royal Festival Hall. It was a fine day, as days often are in the middle of October. If she had been acquainted with Wordsworth she might have said that earth hath not anything to show more fair. The sentiment was there.
She had a free trip back to Finchley Road. All her mail-order goodies had arrived while she was out. Fowler had taken them in and left them stacked on the kitchen counter. For half an hour she amused herself putting away the linens, changing the sheets on her bed for new pale-blue ones, and trying on the cashmere sweaters. Finally she selected the lilac one to wear for her date with Barry that evening.
Chapter Twenty-five
There was a chance Andrew would never discover the presence of Heather and Edmund upstairs. Not much of a chance, Ismay acknowledged, unless she could bring herself to persuade them to watch for his comings and goings and conceal themselves when he was likely to leave or arrive. Some vestige of pride or good sense still remaining with her, balked at this. She could—just—have tried it with Heather but not with Edmund. She was sure he would refuse her. Apart from that, she would have to face making the request and meeting his eyes. He was kind, he was one of the kindest people she knew, but she remembered the look he gave her when the eight roses had come and she had received them so rapturously, not a contemptuous look but one full of pity and regret.
Four days to go before they left. Andrew was out of the flat all day, and when he came home in the evening neither Heather nor Edmund had yet come home. Andrew hadn’t asked her who was looking after her mother. It never occurred to him to think about things like that, caring for the sick, preparing meals, shopping and cleaning. They were done and someone must have done them, but for him they always had been. They happened, just as water came out of taps when you turned them on and illumination from lightbulbs when you pressed a switch. She had told him where Pamela was, who this new man of hers was and when she would be returning, but he had shown minimal interest. He hadn’t yet met her mother.
Her days with him had been a kind of honeymoon. Or, rather, to create a honeymoon atmosphere was obviously his intention. She felt mean and base when she responded with less than her old delight—she feared she gave the impression of loving him less—because her worries oppressed her. She might be in his arms, she might be making love, when the thought would come to her in spite of herself that she was being blackmailed, followed closely by the everlasting anxiety of her doubts about Heather. The substance of her stress she might hide from Andrew, but she couldn’t pretend the stress wasn’t there, only tell herself that once Heather and Edmund were gone, things would be a little easier. Meanwhile she prepared herself for another phone call and for parting with twice what she had paid to Marion Melville last time.
Michael Fenster had been due to bring Pamela home on Thursday lunchtime. Ismay and Andrew would both be at work. Because he worked shifts, Edmund would be at home to receive them. Things happened differently, though not at first disastrously. Michael arrived on Wednesday evening, letting himself into the house with Pamela’s key. It was just after seven and Ismay and Andrew were going out, first to dinner and then to a club where they were meeting Seb Miller and his girlfriend. For Ismay it wasn’t a particularly happy arrangement. True, she would be with Andrew, this new adoring devoted Andrew, but she couldn’t forget how she had humiliated herself to Seb, phoning him and begging him to tell her where his flatmate could be found. Still, once she had faced him, things would be easier next time.
Hearing someone come into the hall, she thought at first it was Edmund, though she had believed him home already. She prepared herself to detain Andrew until he had gone upstairs, but then she heard Pamela’s voice and she went out to her. Andrew followed. Pamela looked pale and thin, but she could walk, though with a slight limp.
“We’re a day early, Issy. I should have let you know, but I couldn’t wait to get home.”
Ismay kissed her, introduced her and Michael Fenster to Andrew. Smiling, looking a little shy, Michael shook hands and said, “Pleased to meet you.” Ismay saw what no one but she would notice, the faint curl of Andrew’s upper lip, his invariable reaction to a solecism.
Then Pamela asked the question, the question Ismay hadn’t allowed for in all her anxious predictions and fraught fantasies. “Are Edmund and Heather in, Issy?”
She felt a deep thick flush burn her face. Beside her, Andrew’s intake of breath was almost silent. “I don’t know,” she said.
“Well, you’re obviously going out so we won’t keep you,” Michael said. “I’ll fetch Pam’s case in a tick,” and, in a way which would once have won Ismay’s admiration, he lifted Pamela in his arms and carried her up the flight of stairs. She heard Heather’s voice as he reached the top.
Andrew opened the front door. Their taxi had drawn up outside behind Michael’s car. Andrew went outside, told the driver he wouldn’t be needed, came back, ushered Ismay into the flat, and shut the door behind them. She thought, I won’t say I can explain. I won’t. I will not sink to that. He won’t leave me for this. She said nothing.
“Sit down.”
She thought he would ask her what she had to say for herself. He didn’t. “What is it with you, Ismay? Are you really so committed to those two, so in love with that pair, that you lie to me, deceive me, go to all sorts of lengths to keep from me the truth that they have been living upstairs all the time I’ve been here? Why? What is it about this dull, plebeian, lower-middle-class couple, these chavs, that has so enslaved you?”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“You’re sorry. Those words should carry with them an implicit promise of amendment, but in your case they don’t. You’ve done it
before. No doubt you think you can do it again.”
“It will never happen again, Andrew. They’re going tomorrow. They take over their new flat tomorrow.”
The phone rang. The voice of Marion Melville said, “Hello?” This is the ultimate, my Apocalypse, my hell, thought Ismay. This is where I lie down and scream. Of course she didn’t. “I can’t talk now. Can you call back?” She put the phone down.
“Was that your sister?”
“No.”
“I find it hard to believe anything you say. Let me just say to you, I’m going out now. Alone. I don’t know when I’ll be back if ever. I can’t live under the same roof with those people.”
Last time he had gone she had cried. She had wept uncontrollably, sobbed through the night, lain on the floor crying bitterly. For some reason it was different now. She said aloud to the empty room, I can’t bear it, and then she began to bear it, dry-eyed, still, staring at his roses, the fresh, the dead, and the dying, all in one vase, kept like that because she couldn’t bring herself to throw away those that had faded.
For the first time for years, Beatrix showed a flicker of emotion when her sister came into the room. She held out her hand to Pamela, who, uncertain whether to take it in a handshake or clutch it, lifted it instead to her lips. Beatrix looked at her hand, frowning, and touched the spot where Pamela’s lips had rested. Then she offered her a chocolate.