Katherine jumped.
‘I wasn’t shutting my eyes,’ she lied. ‘I was looking at the ceiling.’
‘Oh. Why?’
Mary settled bags around herself without more greeting. She was always restless, an examiner of the masculine watch too prominent on one thin wrist, reminding Katherine and everyone else how busy she was, what a favour this interlude of her time. Since she was looking for signs of guilt in her little sister, she was more restless than usual, her cursory examination closer. Katherine was as slender as ever, possibly more so but, since this was a characteristic Mary shared and therefore could not envy, she passed to other features. It was Katherine’s softness which always intrigued and escaped her, a kind of fluffiness she coveted but scorned.
‘So why the culture shock today?’ Mary asked rudely. ‘Haven’t seen you for ages. So kind of you to phone. Of course, I forgot, we do this every year. God knows why. Do we eat first or look at the pictures?’ The woman opposite them on the next table was shredding the last of the chicken from the carcass. The flesh near the bone was pink. Katherine grabbed her handbag.
‘Look at the pictures, I think.’
They wandered into the hall of the Royal Academy, paid their money, Katherine nervously. The allowance for an afternoon out was exact; never enough to pay for a phone call. She thought of asking Mary for change, but Mary’s abruptness silenced her and in the quietness of the place, the old pride was returning. Then they moved up the stairway and began in gallery one. Katherine had an eye for pictures: she chose to look at them in the way others might have gone to see films, perceiving shapes in nothing, without any particular preference, but drawn to a series of colours, mooning round galleries as if drawn on a string, forgetting everything else, wanted to stay in the galleries for the simple absorption of swivelling eyes. The summer exhibition was a ritual, followed by Katherine out of love; Mary because Mary thought it a proper thing to do. Katherine never looked here for excellence, only for oblivion, hypnotized by the vast rooms. Thinking at the back of her mind, anything good, David said every year, write down the name, put a sticker on it and note the painter. Art to David was also investment, requiring his wife’s eye. Katherine paused, rapt before a Tuscan landscape of vivid blues and ochre fields, shimmering with heat as if the canvas was on fire. ‘Oh, lovely,’ she breathed.
‘Was it like that on your honeymoon?’ Mary asked inconsequentially, still watching, waiting for something.
‘I can’t remember,’ said Katherine. They were used to brief conversations. Mary found them stranger today, a series of non sequiturs which signified something. She usually only came to the summer show on sufferance: today she had come to watch her sister, full of resentment at Katherine’s reservations, her sullen self-satisfaction, Mary’s own head stuffed with nameless jealousy. Claud had not phoned; she was completely alone. Katherine was selfishly surrounded. Mary’s frustration pinpointed itself in Claud, who was not the real cause, but enough to render her irrational self quite out of control and sharp as ice.
In the room of abstracts, all the paintings were unsold. Mary preferred these lines and distortions to the literal depictions of what she privately considered rather frivolous themes. They moved further: she was hungry and impatient, hated to see her sister with this religious concentration, captivated by the eye. She paused deliberately in front of a large canvas, not abstract but allegory, she guessed, something more in the style of the surreal. There were two red bodies twisted together obscenely to form the bulk of the painting. In the background was a luminous woman in white, the foreground littered with teardrops of shiny blue. The painting bore the large title ‘Adultery’, written in the left-hand corner of the canvas in the same colour as the tears. ‘I like that,’ said Mary, inspired by sudden malice. ‘I think it’s wonderful. Don’t you?’
Mary was excited: she felt they had been led to this spot, divine intervention in her search for clues and there were all the leads, a woman in white hovering in the background with copulation in the front, reminiscent of Katherine in white, lingering in a wine bar waiting for Claud, but really Katherine in the forefront, one of the twisted red bodies. But the surreal quality, the lack of any prettiness, upset Katherine, who hated ugliness, shook slightly in emotional disapproval. Mary saw a distorted vision of Claud: Katherine saw David, Monica and a monstrous legend of treachery. ‘I hate it, absolutely hate it,’ she muttered, clicking on to the next gallery, a smaller room full of miniatures. No wonder you hate it, Mary crowed: no bloody wonder. Guilt writ large in letters of your own adultery. You just don’t like it painted in red, can’t bear the spotlight. She could read once promiscuous Katherine like a book, could she, but in the heart within heart, she did not really believe her sister would be such a fool. She did not believe anything, but through her own red-rimmed eyes, the theft felt entirely true.
Oh yes, she had her answers now. No word from Claud, a deafening silence in which he came to mean more and more, so that even the phone bell rang in her ears. Look at her, all the answers so obvious in Kath’s uneven movements. There had been no word from Claud, Katherine so jumpy, not once but twice, guilt tingling in her, something she was dying to tell. Mary felt a rising tide of anger, part hunger, part several kinds of frustration, present in her fingers as she dug into a bowl of murky salad back in the restaurant. Everything for Katherine and a dish of herbs for me. ‘Well,’ she said brightly as they sat where they had sat before. ‘That was fun. Going to buy anything, what’s the news and how’s the job?’
Katherine jumped again, her seat leaving the wooden chair. ‘Oh fine, absolutely fine.’ A vague response, rearranging her food. Nothing carnivorous or substantial today: salad with feta cheese. She must tell Mary about the playroom. Mary thought, guilt, again: see, she cannot even eat, and felt a greater rush of impatience.
‘I went to Mr Isaacs’ shop,’ she said pointedly. ‘This morning. Thought I might meet you there. But you weren’t at work.’
‘No,’ said Katherine, ‘not today.’
‘I see,’ said Mary, seeing it all. The part-time job, Katherine setting out in the morning, waving goodbye to dear David, pitching up at some little hotel in the vicinity, or maybe a service flat, Katherine could afford a service flat. So could Claud, arriving with flowers or gifts. Katherine would take off her white dress in front of a window. It did not matter if this was not quite the way it was, but whichever way it was, Katherine was not telling the truth, assuming her sister was a fool. Or so she felt, all of her raw from real and imagined rejection.
‘So you still have that job?’ Mary inquired casually. Not according to Mr Isaacs, not as Mary had understood from his waving of arms, and his hesitant words such as sad, very sad, not reliable. En route to no real explanation at all, he had added that he was sorry for the lady’s husband, such a gentleman. Why, Mary had asked. Embarrassing, Mr Isaacs had muttered: she cheats all this time and I could never tell him. What kind of cheat, Mary had asked then. Mr Isaacs had rubbed his nose, refused to specify: Mary’s imagination, acting overtime, hazarded more than one guess.
‘You’re lying to me, Katherine, I know you are,’ Mary said out loud, putting a piece of salami into her mouth as soon as she had spoken. Food had lost appeal. Katherine jumped yet again, higher than ever.
‘Pardon?’
‘You’re lying,’ Mary repeated, satisfied with the reaction.
‘No, no, no . . .’
‘Yes you are. I know you are. I’ve been talking to people.’
Katherine settled back nervously. Mary had been talking to David. They used to talk more often before than now: Katherine often had the uncomfortable feeling that Mary had arranged her whole marriage like a broker, and maybe kept her feelers on it through visiting Sophie. But in any event, it struck her that the competent people in her life often talked to one another, with herself the occasional subject. What shall we do with Katherine: she had heard that sentiment whispered, knew the subject of herself was often a conversational parcel. N
ever really minded since it absolved her from decisions, and even the shame of that carried relief. At least she might explain to Mary now, about the necklace, since clearly, Mary already knew.
‘So, I suppose you know, all about it,’ she said at last, thinking of Mr Isaacs and the numdah rugs, but thinking more of the diamond and gold necklace, burning a hole in some locked drawer in the studio. Jeanetta in the playroom, sharing the same punishment. Mary nodded wisely, thinking of nothing but Claud, people stealing things, people in bed together.
‘It wasn’t my fault,’ Katherine rushed on. ‘It just happened. I couldn’t help it.’
Mary leant forward, her face twisted in anger. ‘No, you couldn’t, could you? You never could resist, could you? You’re an absolute sucker for the sparkle in any man’s eye.’ But while she spoke, Katherine was choking and beginning to cough. The brown bread she had nibbled was stuck to the roof of her mouth creating nausea: something else stuck to the grains, and in the relief of being able to share some worry with Mary, she had swallowed backwards. ‘Can I tell you about it?’ she said, tears from the choking standing in her eyes. ‘It’s so awful at home. David’s so angry all the time . . . Jeanetta . . . what can I do, if I could just explain, you could tell me what to do . . . Oh I do wish you would come home. Could you come now?’
But Mary’s tolerance was completely gone. The overdue invitation, issued like a plea, rose like bile in her throat and jealousy was twisting her spine.
‘No you can’t explain,’ she shouted. ‘Not now, not ever. What on earth makes you think I’d ever understand? You’re a disgraceful little slut. If he throws you out, don’t come running to me.’
Katherine moved forward in her uncomfortable chair, watching the iron rod of Mary’s back as Mary strode out of the room. Then she looked up at the ceiling again. To keep in place the tears of confusion. She had wanted to tell, but no one would let her tell, better not to try. She had knocked to speak to Susan Pearson, seen her and been told she was not there. Tried the Harrisons, knew others she dare not try, like Monica and Jenny, in it together, laughing at her. Even Sophie never phoned any more. No one was going to listen.
Tap, tap, tap. Mary’s flat heels, steel tipped for economy, were tripping down the spiral stairs into the underground, the whole of her tense with irritation. The rest of the day was programmed, each appointment dovetailing into the next, and she was on her way to the next. Hot as fire and cold as ice, looking at the men on the other side of the compartment, hungrily. Looking for the new Claud, looking for satisfaction, abandoning Katherine wholesale. That’s told her: that’s set her right. No good thinking she can run to me when she’s up to her old tricks; picks me up and drops me; let her stew: who does she think she is? And more of the same righteous rage, tripping over the first. Pictures, looking at pictures, can’t bear people wasting my time, she can look at pictures with Claud, thinking I have nothing better to do, idle cow. Mary looked at the large dial of her watch. She was early for the next appointment. Busy, busy, busy, they would have to take her early. She was too highly charged to stop.
Still tap-tapping, up a West End back street to Child Action Volunteers, premises awaiting her inspection, their scruffy offices above the headquarters of some manufacturers of maternity clothes and next door to a private family clinic, very apt and very droll to Mary’s mind. Mission: take a look at the place to discuss the allocation of funds and see those volunteers who were supposed to qualify for awards. Damn, damn, damn: then go home to nothing, or another, similar appointment. Mary was trustee of a charity melting-pot, filled periodically by the sort of bequests which said, ‘All to charity’ without specifying which, leaving her and her kind the discretion which Mary herself much enjoyed to exercise over other people’s money. For the moment, because of some knock-on effect of her own moaning hormones and the meeting with Katherine, Mary was rather off the whole idea of children. Monsters in miniature forms: mainly it was the adults who needed protection.
Two cramped rooms were approached by creaking stairs, and the tenure of the place was only possible because most of the few staff were out at any given time. For committee meetings, they were forced to convene in the pub: otherwise two desks and five chairs were occupied in shifts. The furniture bore traces of defeat and there was a patched hole in the ceiling. The heat of the city outside had risen into the trap of the roof, stirred by one electric fan as old as it was inadequate. As Mary trod upstairs, she could hear a plaintive male voice, talking insistently but slowly.
‘Oh come on, I’m sure you can manage a kitten. Just the one. Come and see them at least: I can watch them for hours. You’ll be sold as soon as you look. They are quite, unbelievably beautiful.’ The voice contained an edge of adoration.
‘Why do you want to get rid of them, then?’
‘Well I don’t if you want to know, but I’ve got to be realistic. There’s five of them you see, and they’re beginning to run up the walls. I’m only trying to find good homes; if I don’t I shall have to keep them. My favourite’s a perfect tabby . . .’
Mary stood outside the open door at the top of the stairs without being seen herself, watching and listening.
‘. . . And of all things, a black and white one, with a sort of tabby stripe. I think Kat had a wild evening, straight from one to another.’ There was a giggle from the secretary. ‘Promiscuous puss,’ the male voice added.
Mary saw a tall, spare man, sitting on the edge of a battered desk, talking to a faded-looking woman of about fifty tired summers. The persistent twitch in the visible corner of the man’s face rendered his smile, even in profile, slightly foolish. Cats, Mary thought furiously; a paid charity worker sitting on a desk and wasting an afternoon talking about cats. Mary hated cats, which reminded her of Katherine at her kittenish worst. John Mills rose in the same moment of Mary’s grimace of disgust and saw her lingering behind the door, lurched towards her in a series of utterly graceless shuffles. ‘Hallo, hallo, hallo,’ he said in a mimic of a suspicious policeman, ‘who the hell are you?’
The secretary at the desk touched his arm in warning, anxiety present on her good-natured features. ‘This is Miss Fox,’ she hissed, ‘come to look us over.’ ‘Oh,’ said John, unabashed, his face breaking into a grin which Mary found worse than the twitching seriousness, ‘I don’t suppose you want a kitten either, do you?’
With one hand extended, he rose to full, awkward height, towering above Mary like a crooked obelisk. His colouring reminded her of Claud, but there the resemblance ended, with this shambling body sloping downwards from thin shoulders towards a small stomach and stick-like thighs, every feature in a man she did not like. A little, round underbelly, worse than a big, taut one, the sort which would at least go with a bon viveur, nothing tight about him, all of it slipping slightly out of control. While Mary spoke with her usual brisk politeness, he in turn took in the clothes which made her look like a traffic warden, the clipped accents, the air of an official, felt prejudice rise like a tide breaking into the foam of instant irritation. Dislike of this instant kind always made him act like a fool: he was as uncomfortable as a schoolboy with a hated master, showed her round the offices in a series of silly, defensive flourishes, giggly with every second phrase.
‘Oh yes. The equipment. Here we have the filing cabinets. Out there is the loo, would you like to go, ladies and gents for the use of. Here is our Miss Moneypenny, who knows everything. This is the telephone. Here is another chair, broken. I’m not at all sure what it is you’re here to inspect, but this is all there is. Don’t ask where are the staff. There aren’t many and they’re out.’
The secretary watched, embarrassment buried in the business of making tea, escaping down three flights to the shop next door for sugar which none of them wanted, pouring from a cracked pot as all of them perched round the desk, brittle with tension.
‘Do you find,’ said Mary, clearing her throat, calmer now, dislike chilled by her own inquiring smile, ‘that your work involves a racial and soci
al mix?’ This question came from a questionnaire and she addressed the secretary, who began to open her mouth as John answered brusquely.
‘Racial yes, social, no. You must know very well that most of society’s disorders are confined to the poor. The dross, you might say.’ He emphasized ‘You’. Mary considered her own background briefly before shutting it out, recalled that she had never been given to understand that poverty had been much of a factor in her own parents’ dreadful lives, let alone the cause of her abandonment. Memories of Claud and Katherine had long receded and she was busy disliking John Mills entirely in his own right. For the twitch, the underbelly and the bloody-minded arrogance. ‘Not necessarily so,’ she murmured. He looked at her with ill-concealed contempt. ‘If this kind of abuse really went across the board,’ he said, enunciating each word clearly as if lecturing the hard of hearing, ‘it would be a very rare social disorder indeed. Only the most specialized diseases reach epidemic proportions in the good old middle and upper classes. A good analogy, I think.’ He waved his arm expansively and Mary backed away. ‘The rich generally look after themselves, don’t you find? Immune from most things after all.’
‘You can’t generalize . . .’ Mary began.
‘After fifteen years of this, yes I can,’ said John rudely. They all sipped tea in uncomfortable silence, Mary examining the contents of her cup with suspicion, knowing full well he had deliberately handed her the one with the cracks and brown rings inside. When the telephone rang, the secretary leapt towards it as if the receiver could announce salvation.
Tap-tapping downstairs again, a mere half-hour after entry, Mary was still too early for the next appointment, cancelled the day in her mind. She did not believe what she had just been told, about how she had hit these offices at the only slack time in weeks, something to do with summer holidays, factors she chose to ignore. Cats and prejudices, silly men with big feet and shoulders only large enough to cater for chips resting on them. One thing was certain sure: nobody in this little outfit was going to get one of the bloody awards. Or a pay rise out of charitable funds. Or recognition.
The Playroom Page 21