‘I expect the men – I expect they’ve gone off for a drink somewhere,’ suggested Lucy.
‘Martin said Peter went to get some cigarettes. He’s been away a long time.’
What could have frightened Sally so much that she could forget to mention Tim’s death, wondered Lucy. Was it because she was terrified that something had happened to Peter? She glanced at Metand. He started to say something and then stopped.
‘I need some help,’ began Sally. Her voice was shaking so much now that she could hardly get the words out. ‘He should have come home.’
‘Where do you think he has gone?’
‘I don’t know. How can I tell you if I don’t know?’
‘You may not know where he’s gone.’ Metand spoke reluctantly. ‘But you know what he’s done, don’t you?’
She nodded, as if she was relieved that he knew, wanting his protection.
‘How long have you known?’ Metand asked gently.
‘Ever since Peter came back from the war.’ Sally gazed at them, her voice a monotone. ‘But when the shed was burnt, when I saw Baverstock’s pathetic blackmail, I was sure.’ She paused. ‘But I suppose I was always wondering. When Peter and I were making love I knew he didn’t want me.’
‘Some film has been developed in France. The prints show your husband and Martin Latimer in compromising positions with a couple of young Frenchmen. Originally I thought that the shots had been taken for German propaganda purposes – but then I began to think of another possibility. Suppose the Germans were not present when the photographs were taken?’
‘What are you trying to say?’ She had Tim’s old look of evasion.
‘What has worried me was the enjoyment in the men’s eyes. The pleasure.’
Sally turned to Lucy as if she had suddenly snapped. As if she was pleased to have snapped. The words were torrential. ‘I know about Peter. I wish I didn’t, but I do. I should have faced up to it. He isn’t interested in me physically and never has been.’ She paused, but there were no tears and little emotion – just a hardness that had been building for a long time, the grim knowledge that she took shelter from in her so-called illnesses. ‘When May saw Baverstock with a man she fortunately couldn’t identify, I knew it was Peter.’ She paused and glanced at Lucy. ‘I’m fed up with them being in charge. Now we’re in charge. Aren’t we?’ Her voice shook but somehow Sally just managed to remain in control. Lucy knew the men were no longer able to do that. Their regime was over.
The elderly woman with her equally elderly spaniel was on them before they saw her.
‘Mrs Davis –’ she began excitedly – ‘I’m afraid those Eyeties are up to it again.’
‘What are you talking about, Sheila?’ Sally sounded remarkably calm.
‘Mrs Groves. I hear you’ve been out of the country. Did you have a pleasant holiday?’
Lucy couldn’t bring herself to reply, and after a decent interval Sheila returned to more fertile ground.
‘They’ve been shooting rabbits on the Clump again. I’m sure of it. They’ve been told time and time again that this is illegal. But I heard at least six shots when I was taking Barney for a walk.’
Lucy watched Sally’s expression change from strained social interest to the realization of what must have happened. She seemed to go limp and then stiffen again, her lips working but no sound emerging. Then she turned and began to run athletically back up the lane. She didn’t even glance round to see if Lucy and Metand were following.
‘I hope she’s not going to go up the Clump single-handed,’ said Sheila, relishing the drama. ‘The Eyeties are very temperamental you know.’
‘Shall I get the car?’ asked Metand.
‘There’s no access for vehicles.’ Sheila was delighted to be negative. ‘There’s only the path.’
While she watched with rising curiosity, Metand and Lucy set off at a brisk pace. After a while they too began to run.
‘I’m glad you feel like me,’ Sheila shouted after them. ‘They shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it. After all – we won the war!’
Hurrying back past the coal yard and on down West End Lane in the gathering twilight, they eventually took a footpath that at first crossed a field and then climbed a fenced hill through dense woodland.
Unlike Normandy, Lucy thought, the British countryside felt over-populated. A couple of sweet wrappers and a soft drink bottle confirmed the problem and she saw Metand glancing at an abandoned mangle half buried in the bracken. With fearful trepidation she remembered the indignity of Tim’s body being winched out of the well, the snapped arm splayed behind him.
Panic welled up in Lucy and she wanted to run back home, go to bed like Sally and pull the sheets tight over her head, just as she had at the Hotel des Arbres. But she knew she couldn’t. Not now.
The keening seemed to soar out of the ground itself, pulsing, changing rhythm until it was a shrill wailing.
When they arrived in the glade, Lucy saw Sally sitting beside Peter, his shattered head in her lap, the raw hole seeping blood and bone and brains.
He had shot himself in the mouth and his service revolver was still clasped in his right hand. Sally was rocking him gently, like a mother with a child, the strange keening still on her lips.
Lucy ran over to her, stroking her damp hair, aware that her print dress was spattered. She saw the matted hair on Peter’s chest, protruding from his shirt. The blood had flowed copiously, but now it had crusted around the hole where his mouth and part of his nose had once been.
You won’t need to go to bed now, Lucy told Sally in her mind. You won’t have to feign illness ever again.
Sally rose awkwardly to her feet, letting Peter slide away from her. ‘I loved him. But not enough. I just let him run out of control.’
She led the way down the path, without even glancing back at her husband’s body. Lucy came next, failing to match her stride and Metand brought up the rear, stumbling, finding the pace difficult. He was wheezing slightly.
Once back on the main road they met Sheila and her spaniel again.
‘You’re covered in blood, Mrs Davis,’ she began, alarm and curiosity competing with each other.
‘Yes,’ said Sally at her most sweepingly competent. ‘There’s been an accident.’
‘The Eyeties? Well, all I can say is that they’ve cried wolf with those guns once too often.’
‘I’ll ring Frasier. Make the necessary arrangements,’ said Metand. ‘There’s a telephone box over there.’ He glanced helplessly at them. ‘I may need assistance. I don’t understand how to-’
‘I’ll help you,’ said Sally, glad of the opportunity to escape.
‘I honestly feel those Eyeties should be shipped home,’ Sheila was saying. ‘They’re just not responsible.’
‘Who is?’ replied Lucy.
‘Would you like a drink?’ asked Sally when they arrived in the spacious hallway of Conifers.
‘I’d rather have some tea,’ said Lucy. ‘While you brew up I’ll ring May.’ She spoke lightly, as if nothing had happened, as if Solange had not fallen to her death, as if Tim had not been winched from the well, as if Peter had not fired his revolver into his mouth, as if she had never seen the photographs. Lucy felt anaesthetized, unable to believe what was happening, and as she dialled she had the strangest feeling that she would soon be back in the pavilion with the sandwich spread.
‘May Latimer.’
‘It’s Lucy.’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m afraid there’s been a – an accident.’ Then she corrected herself. ‘No, not an accident. I didn’t mean that. I was wrong. Peter’s shot himself. Up on the Clump. I’m so sorry. I – I just can’t take it in.’
‘Dear God. Not him!’ Then May began to speak calmly, almost menacingly, as if she had to sort out a dispute between the children at school. ‘There’s a lot we can’t take in, Lucy. I gather we’ve been summoned by your Frenchman. It’s terrible for you and Sally and I’m sorry it worked out this way
. I could never have believed that in a few days all our lives would be ruined like this. All we’ve strived for – just thrown away because of a lack of control.’ May ended up by sounding artificial.
‘Control?’ Lucy was appalled. ‘Is that how we should all be? Automatons?’
Sensing that she was in danger of losing an argument, May’s tone became even more schoolmistressy, ruling out any further discussion. ‘There’s no point in continuing this conversation. I’m afraid there is a lot more to be explained, to take responsibility for. Martin and I will be at Gables at seven.’
‘We’re meeting at Conifers now. Sally –’
‘I quite understand,’ said May. ‘Now I need some time to myself.’ She hung up.
‘I don’t feel as if I’m in shock,’ said Sally as she put the kettle on. ‘In fact I feel nothing at all.’
‘That’s how I felt about Tim. That’s the way I am now. I just don’t believe any of it happened. They’ll all come walking down the road soon. Late home from the pub for a warmed-up supper. The men. But I know the pain will break through. It’s just a matter of time.’
‘I expect that will happen to me,’ said Sally. ‘And then people will be telling me to take it one day at a time. Not make quick decisions. That kind of rubbish.’ She paused and then said, ‘Peter wouldn’t have been able to take all the repercussions. It was best this way.’
‘Can you?’
‘Yes, I can take them. But I’ve got to get away from here.’ Her voice rose again and she gripped the top of a chair until her knuckles were white. Lucy put her arms round her. ‘I want it to hurt,’ Sally said. ‘Then I’ll know it’s real. Do you remember that day when the shed was set ablaze? You were staring at it, wondering what to do and then I ran over. I knew then.’
‘It seems like years ago – not days.’
Sally went over to the stove and made a pot of strong tea. ‘What’s he like – your French detective?’ she asked as they carried the tray into the lounge.
‘He’s been helpful and supportive without protecting me. It’s because of Metand that I’ve been able to cope. Just. But now I want to concentrate on you.’
‘Don’t worry about me,’ said Sally almost carelessly. ‘I’ve been coping for a long time now. I’m not likely to stop.’ She paused. ‘It’s all been a farce, hasn’t it?’
‘What has?’ asked Lucy.
‘The cricket club,’ Sally replied, rather absurdly, but Lucy knew exactly what she meant.
Lucy remained in the chintzy lounge with its cricketing photographs while Sally took a shower. The room was large, with floral sofas and chairs, French windows opening on to a lawn that stretched down to the tennis court.
Photographs of Martin and Peter and Tim, as well as the rest of the village cricket team, dominated a grand piano, and on the lilac papered walls were a few framed prints, largely Impressionists; an ormolu clock ticked away the long minutes on the polished walnut sideboard.
‘Do you want a shower?’ asked Sally as she came back into the room.
Lucy shook her head.
‘Will Metand stay at your place tonight like he did last time?’
‘Just for tonight. We keep shuttling between France and England, and when I’m in one country I want to be in the other. I longed to be back here after Tim was found.’ She knew they were talking brightly, as if they were watching the cricket, but it wasn’t possible to accept the enormity of it all.
‘And now?’
‘I don’t know. Have you got that drink?’
‘We’d better be careful.’
‘I only need one,’ said Lucy.
As Sally went to the sideboard Alice came running into the room with Nancy Dexter. ‘Did you find Mr Davis?’ she asked.
Alice hugged her mother’s legs. ‘I want my daddy,’ she said. ‘Where’s my daddy? Where is he?’
‘He’s gone for a walk,’ Sally said absently, and Lucy tried to flash a warning glance at Nancy which didn’t connect.
‘Will Daddy be long?’ demanded Alice.
‘Nancy – will you take Alice upstairs.’ Lucy tried to intervene gently. ‘Mrs Davis has got some friends coming in for drinks.’
‘Yes.’ Sally kissed her daughter. ‘What a nuisance. Never mind. I’ll come and read you a story when they’ve gone.’
Mollified, Alice allowed Nancy to take her away.
Sally poured out two large Scotches and sat down on the sofa. Then she began to cry.
Lucy held her and thought of how they had all been only a few days ago. The Esher wives. Sally, the brittle tennis player, cocktail queen of Shrub Lane, inveterate avoider of the cricket pavilion sandwich-making, escaping into codeine sleep and unnamed illnesses. May, full of thumping good common sense, knowing her place, doing her job. And, of course, herself, who had grown so restless with her shadow Tim she had forced him into a journey and an opportunity which led to the bottom of a well. Two widows now in each other’s arms. It was as if the war had never finished with their men.
Gently, Lucy released Sally.
‘It’s worse for you. You really loved Tim.’
‘You loved Peter. Once.’
‘When I began to understand about Baverstock I knew he was a hollow man. I’d always known he never cared for me.’
‘When we got to France – just for a few hours – I saw fragments of the old Tim. Then he went away.’
‘If he’d succeeded – if he hadn’t been murdered – he’d have come back as the old Tim. I know it.’ Sally sounded convinced.
‘Perhaps. But I sent him to his death,’ Lucy said woodenly.
‘What would have happened if you hadn’t?’ She was unusually perceptive. ‘He’d have worn away into nothing. You should see Tim as a hero. Take pride in him. He was protecting Peter and Martin. He just went back to war again, on their behalf.’
‘The only thing is, I’m not sure if he died at the hands of the enemy.’
‘Not the enemy,’ said Sally sadly. ‘I think you’ll find it was an enemy.’ They were silent for a while until she said, ‘Peter was always the same. Jovial. Punctilious. Attentive.’
‘I wish you could have told me,’ said Lucy.
‘So do I.’
The ormolu clock ticked on, relentlessly extending each second.
‘It’s all so incongruous,’ said Sally. ‘These prisons they were in. They had no self-expression.’
‘Except their cricket,’ Lucy reminded her.
‘Think of the commuting. Those men travelling together, playing cards, making up a game. Except one of them won’t. He won’t be there ever again.’ Sally paused. ‘But of course the train gang will talk about him. It’ll make them uneasy but they’ll talk in hushed voices for weeks. They’ll all be amazed, although secretly some of them might share the same feelings.’
‘Can you imagine them admitting such a thing on the 7.43?’
‘No,’ said Sally. ‘They could never admit anything. Even to themselves.’
The front door bell rang.
Martin was wearing an open-necked shirt, flannels and brogues. He looked extraordinarily young and totally devastated. May seemed dowdy beside him in her matronly Terylene two-piece, and her usual social smile was a travesty. Metand was with them, looking grey with fatigue, and Lucy felt a sense of incredulity that any of this should be happening.
‘We met on your garden path, Mrs Davis. Inspector Frasier is dealing with – the details.’
‘Can I get you drinks?’ asked Sally.
May kissed her perfunctorily on the cheek and said, ‘I think we should sit down and – and get on with it, don’t you? I – I’m so terribly sorry about what’s occurred. There aren’t any more words to use –’ She broke off. Lucy realized that May, too, shared her protective disbelief.
‘It’s been waiting to happen, hasn’t it?’ said Sally. ‘I could have spoken to Peter a long time ago and tried to reach him. I knew, you see. I really knew. The only intervention was Lucy’s.’
‘Yes,
’ said May venomously. ‘And just see what she started.’
Lucy began to shake and Sally put her arm around her waist. The inability to accept the situation was over and the reality was raw and painful. ‘Shut up,’ she said. ‘Just shut up. She had to do it. Had to stop this thing festering.’
‘Better to fester,’ May said viciously, ‘than to explode all over us.’
Lucy thought of Peter’s brains all over his face. Good old May, she thought savagely. As apt and to the point as ever.
They sat down again. May and Martin in opposite chairs, Sally and Lucy on the sofa while Metand leant against the table.
‘We have four people dead,’ he began. ‘Graham Baverstock. Solange Eclave. Timothy Groves. Peter Davis.’
‘Are you expecting any more?’ demanded Sally. She finished her Scotch and walked defiantly over to the sideboard to pour herself another. May frowned and cleared her throat.
A long silence followed during which Lucy glanced at a photograph of the cricket team and then at another of Peter in his whites, smoking a cigarette and looking nonchalant.
Then Martin spoke quietly. ‘Are you going to cross-examine me again, monsieur?’
‘If I have to. But I was hoping you might save me that task.’ Metand looked around him but his eyes didn’t dwell on any particular face. ‘After what has happened, I regret that I asked Mr Davis to think over his denial. It was an error of judgement. I should have tried to clear the matter up in the pavilion. Then perhaps –’
‘No,’ said Sally. ‘Peter would not have been able to face exposure. If he was still here now, I’m sure he would have found a way of going to the Clump later.’
‘He might well have been under arrest.’
‘Then he would have dealt with the problem.’ Sally sounded convinced.
We didn’t know our husbands, thought Lucy. But how little we know each other, away from the roles we’ve adopted. Sally had become a realist. And May? She was about to be destroyed.
Martin stood up. There was a little pulse beating in his temple, but he didn’t say anything for a long time. Then he burst into speech, staring straight ahead of him, his hands clenched, fingers locked together as if he was having to force out the words. ‘I think I can save everyone a good deal of time. The discovery of the photographs was enough to wreck my future, so I might as well go the whole hog.’ He glanced down at May who sat looking down at her lap, her face expressionless. ‘I’m sorry.’
The Men Page 22