Last Act of All

by Aline Templeton

  ‘He never!’ Incredulous eyes swivelled on to her.

  ‘You’ve never said nothing about this before!’ Martha led the accusation.

  ‘Nobody’s never asked me.’ She tossed her head. ‘Like I said, she’s nice. And we’d best be getting into church, or vicar will wring those hands of his right off.’

  Martha’s face was blacker than ever as she brought up the rear with Jane Thomas.

  ‘Changes, that’s what this’ll mean. You mark my words.’

  ‘Talking’s cheap,’ Jane said comfortably. ‘Takes a lot of believing, you said yourself.’

  Martha was not appeased. ‘We’ve had enough changes in Radnesfield. We don’t want no more.’

  In agreement for once, Jane nodded as they reached the vicar, who, with all the innocence of the reader of quality Sundays, was saying happily, ‘How very nice to see you all, ladies! Such an encouraging congregation,’ as he ushered them in.

  *

  Neville was brusquely uncommunicative as he and Chris Dyer set off for London early on Monday morning. Dyer was unsurprised. Fielding was a moody sod, and anyway, who made bright conversation at six a.m.? He pulled his French leather cap down over his eyes, leaned back and went to sleep.

  Neville glanced at him in annoyance. Just because he had been a little crabby, it didn’t mean he wanted to drive all the way up to London with only his thoughts for company.

  He was obscurely disappointed in Radnesfield, which had promised, somehow, a lot more than it had got round to delivering. Helena, despite the dislocation, was still the same Helena. She had managed to convert his wonderful anarchic house into a sort of monument to good taste in dreadfully trying circumstances; when he had reckoned to reduce her to bread and cheese at the kitchen table or a chicken and chips carry-out from Limber, she had responded with entertainment as elaborate as anything she produced in London for expected guests.

  He had tried to get her off balance; she had treated him like an experienced mother ignoring her child who is kicking and screaming on the floor. Now they didn’t talk, they didn’t fight, they didn’t make love.

  If Helena wanted to play the ‘don’t care’ game, then he was happy to raise the stakes. Don’t care, as they had been accustomed to say in the Home, was made to care, and god! he was going to enjoy watching her break. He’d like to see her attempt the sort of toffee-nosed lack of interest she’d shown about Sandra Daley.

  She was right there, of course; Sandra didn’t matter. Sandra was a zero, like a dozen other zeroes, and her eagerness had about as much appeal as an over-ripe plum that squelches into the hand that plucks it. He would have dropped her long ago if it weren’t for the husband, who provided fresh entertainment each time Neville saw him with some new evidence of tortured suspicion.

  Daley, mad with jealousy. Cool, self-possessed Helena, helpless and pleading. That would provide two delicious illustrations of his power, and a tiny taste of the fictitious satisfactions Harry Bradman so regularly enjoyed.

  *

  Helena heard the front door slam as Neville and Chris left, and tried to get back to sleep, but as tormenting thoughts cartwheeled behind her closed lids, she accepted the inevitable, and got up. Bundling on her jade dressing-gown against the morning chill, she pattered through the silent house to the refuge of the kitchen.

  The red Aga glowed warm and welcoming, and she pressed herself against it like a cat as she made her coffee.

  Sipping it gingerly, she went to perch on the cushioned seat in the window that took up almost the whole end wall of the kitchen.

  The sun was dragging itself lazily above the horizon, and a wraith-like mist was rising from the pond in the hollow beneath the house. The tops of the beech trees in the coppice that straggled down towards the village, showing a lively green just now, were barely swaying in a light dawn breeze, and somewhere a blackbird was calling. Over it all, the great span of sky was clear, brilliant silver. It was going to be a lovely day.

  Helena gazed hungrily at the beauty before her. Somehow beauty seemed to be a very scarce commodity these days.

  She had wakened with a headache, the sort that tension clamps like an iron circlet about the forehead. It came on, sometimes, before a thunderstorm, and this weekend the house seemed filled with the same sort of brooding, electric anticipation.

  She had scolded herself for being melodramatic, but this was not imagination. The balance of her relationship with Neville, so precariously maintained over the years, was shifting. It was as unmistakable as the wind veering round, though she was still unable to identify the quarter from which it came.

  She had once fasted for three days, in a fashionable attempt to rid her body of toxins. At the end, she felt weak and disorientated, but strangely perceptive. Solitude, it seemed, was having the same purgative effect on her. She was becoming painfully sensitive to atmosphere, as if every mood vibration acted on her like ice on a tooth with an exposed nerve.

  On past experience, there should have been weeks of tranquillity and sunshine, while Neville, having got his own way, sweet-talked himself back into favour. This time, he seemed to have kicked the craving for approval.

  Yet again, Harry’s shadow fell. She had heard them talking on the terrace, Neville and Chris.

  ‘It’s got to convince,’ Dyer had said. ‘I’m going to be asking more from you, Neville — more sense of danger, more anarchy. The punters have got to see you uncontrollable, in free fall. They have to believe you’re capable of absolutely anything.’

  And Neville, in the slow, deeper voice he used for Harry, had drawled, ‘Oh I am, believe me, I am.’

  Helena, clearing cups from the study, had shuddered as if a goose walked over her grave, and couldn’t shake off the thought.

  It was uncharacteristic, too, that Neville should be indifferent to Chris’s blatant attentions to her — Neville, always one of the great modern proponents of Victorian double standards.

  He knew of Helena’s fastidiousness, so was this another Bradman development, a psychological game to attack what she was and break down her personality, or was he trying, at last, to provoke a crisis in their marriage? Until now, she had been essential to his comfort, his safeguard against the Sandra Daleys who persisted after he had tired of them.

  Or was there, perhaps, someone else, someone with whom he might genuinely have fallen in love? Given the rest of his behaviour, it seemed unlikely, but she had her headache to convince her that somewhere, storm clouds were indeed massing.

  The click of the letter-box, telling her the newspaper had been delivered, roused her from her depressing reverie. Beside the paper on the mat lay a large brown envelope, addressed to herself in anonymous black capitals.

  When she slit open the envelope and drew out newspaper clippings, she checked, with a churning of the stomach.

  They came from the bottom end of the Sunday newspaper market, and, in essence, all carried the same story. There were photographs of Neville, escorting a young and very glossy blonde, which showed them tête-à-tête in a restaurant, entering a theatre, or leaving a nightclub with her on his arm. Several shots revealed them gazing into one another’s eyes.

  ‘“Badman’s” latest victim?’ the largest of the headlines ran, ‘Or is it true love for TV’s anti-hero?’

  Sickened, she read every loathsome word. She knew who the woman was; Lilian Sheldon, a minor television star playing Bradman’s latest mistress in the series, and Helena could see the publicity machine grinding away behind it all. The public were to be led to believe that this might be, at last, the love of Harry’s life, and to help the thing along, rumours of True Romance would undoubtedly be generated. It had happened before.

  But always, she had been warned; always, Neville brought her into the act, feeding her the right lines to say to the press. She had even been known to enjoy these little bits of live theatre. Keeping her hand in, she called it.

  This time, he had said nothing. Perhaps, she tried to tell herself, he had hoped she wouldn
’t find out, knowing her policy of avoiding sensational newspapers.

  It was only at that moment that the obvious question occurred to her. Where had the cuttings come from?

  She turned over the envelope. The printing was fairly neat, done with a broad felt-tipped pen, and the envelope was like a million others. But it had been delivered by hand, not by post.

  Either someone in the village had taken it upon themselves to spread a little misery — which would be in character — or Neville had left it himself, this morning.

  She was afraid she knew the answer; that Neville had chosen to tell her their marriage was over in the most humiliating and hurtful manner possible. She was, for once, underestimating her husband.

  At quarter past nine she managed to speak to him at the studios.

  ‘Ah, Helena! Now, what little bird told me you would call?’

  She had phoned Neville, but it was unmistakably Harry who answered, silky and cruel, with a hateful smile in his voice. She had managed, she believed, to sound neither tearful nor accusatory with her opening, ‘Neville?’ but despite hours of agonizing she was still unsure what she would say next.

  She could have spared herself. Without waiting for her reply, the voice went on, ‘Terribly sorry, I just can’t talk just now — dozens of bods all breathing down my neck as I speak, darling — but I’ll see you next weekend. Chris is coming down with me, and perhaps someone else. OK?’

  She replaced the buzzing receiver slowly, and automatically switched the answering machine back on. The tape was already loaded with optimistic requests that she should contact this newspaper or that, with financial inducements attached. She could be a rich, if undignified woman by this time tomorrow.

  It was strange, she observed dispassionately, how much it did hurt. She had thought of divorce lately in much the same way as a sailor views the harbour lights at the end of a long and particularly stormy voyage. Yet here she was quivering in shock that the man she had lived with, and, in their fashion, loved for so long, could dismiss her as casually as an importunate telephone caller selling kitchens.

  ‘Someone else’ — was it at all possible he meant Lilian Sheldon? Even with Neville locked into Harry mode, she found it hard to believe he would bring his mistress to meet his wife, but she no longer felt confident to predict his behaviour. They were entering new territory now and the old maps were useless.

  *

  Huddling her misery about her like a black cloak, Sandra Daley stared into the window of the Limber department store, at the anorexic dummies with their sinister white embryonic faces and their glitzy frocks, seeing nothing.

  But at least pushing past and round her were strangers whose eyes didn’t stick to her like vacuum cleaners trying to suck out her secrets. Radnesfield was laughing at her now, hidden cruel laughter behind faces as closed as the dummies’ were.

  She had fled here today because you needn’t think when you were shopping. You could look at the pretty things, and simple childish greed would blot out everything else. But today the brain-numbing magic wasn’t working, and she was still hurting as she had never hurt before.

  But then, she’d never been so high before, floating on a pink cloud. She had lived a paperback romance — the veiled looks, secret phone-calls, stolen afternoons at a little country hotel where there was champagne waiting for them. Best of all, he could have had anyone, and he had chosen her.

  Oh, she wasn’t dumb. She knew she was being given The Treatment, and he sure as hell hadn’t invented it just for her. She’d told herself all along it couldn’t go on for ever — but only three weeks! And no warning about the photographs with glamorous, sophisticated Lilian Sheldon.

  Worst of all, was the dark, poisonous suspicion that the great romance of her life had been just a squalid little affair where she had been used, unvalued, and then discarded like some cheap hooker. Well, you couldn’t say he was wrong, after what she had done to Jack, who was faithful and decent.

  And Jack knew. She had denied everything, of course, but once or twice Neville had been careless, and Jack knew as surely as if he had been a witness to their love-making. With her head full of impossible dreams, she hadn’t really cared.

  But reality was Sunday morning, with Jack rubbing her nose in the pictures in the paper. She had tipped her chin and said, ‘Must be a barrel of laughs for his wife, mustn’t it?’ but she knew she had gone white.

  Jack’s eyes had scorched her like a blow-torch. ‘That’ll put your little nose right out of joint as well, won’t it?’

  She had been bred tough. ‘That just shows what a small-town mind you’ve got. I’m sorry for you, really. I told you before – big stars go on the way he does all the time, and it doesn’t mean a thing. Maybe now you’ll believe me.’

  But now she was left with the pain, the agony of loss and humiliation and shame. The sequins on the dummies’ dresses shimmered into a blur as hot tears came to her eyes.

  ‘Goodness, Sandra, surely you don’t need another new dress!’

  The tone was arch, the voice that of the vicar’s wife. Startled, Sandra swung round, blinking rapidly.

  ‘Oh, just window-shopping,’ she said, attempting a side-stepping withdrawal.

  With the expertise of long practice, Marcia Farrell had positioned herself so that without physical contact it was almost impossible for her victim to escape.

  ‘That is smart, that black dress, isn’t it? I’d love to be tempted, but of course...’ she sighed, but then continued brightly, ‘Still, I really mustn’t complain – it’s not one of the important crosses one has to bear, is it? When you see the trouble other people have—’

  Was there a knowing look in the sharp black eyes? Mrs Farrell was such a busybody that no one in Radnesfield told her anything, so perhaps she hadn’t heard the latest nasty whispers.

  ‘The poor Fieldings!’ she went on. ‘Isn’t it appalling what they print in papers these days, probably without a scrap of real evidence?’

  The question mark hung in the air, and Sandra stonewalled. ‘I couldn’t say, I’m sure.’

  ‘Of course, he’s such a charming man, women must absolutely throw themselves at him. And Helena, well, she’s absolutely sweet of course, but between ourselves it has just once or twice occurred to me that she’s a teeny bit shallow, perhaps? Just a fraction lacking in the sort of spirituality that such a sensitive man might need.’

  Sandra had no option but to listen, as the gushing torrent flowed on.

  ‘He saw at once, you know, at once, how burdened I was with practical problems, said he must liberate me to use my real, God-given talents. He’s made the most wonderful offer but I mustn’t say too much! Except that not many people with his wealth would be so ready to see it as a privilege to use for others. “Peter,” I said to the vicar, “he has a great soul.”’

  Then what could only be described as a simper crossed her face. ‘Not that one could be blind to his other attractions! “It’s lucky I’m not a jealous man,” the vicar said to me.’

  She gave a girlish giggle, and Sandra stared in sudden, contemptuous comprehension. The silly cow was in love with him herself, and was dumb enough to imagine that he fancied her too. And for all her yammering about spirituality, it wasn’t Christian love she was on about.

  Suddenly, the image of Neville shortening his own upper lip in an imitation of Bugs Bunny, as he called her, struck Sandra with such painful force that she thought she might either laugh or cry hysterically. The fear gave her strength to extricate herself, almost pushing the other woman aside.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’ve got to go, Mrs Farrell.’

  Sandra heard the cry behind her, ‘Oh, just Marcia, please! Mrs Farrell always makes me feel like the vicar’s wife!’ as she scurried thankfully away.

  Chapter Five

  By Friday afternoon, Radnesfield House was well prepared. For the unidentified visitor, Helena had chosen the yellow bedroom, opposite their own. Chris she would put in his usual room which, by no coincidence
, was as far away as possible at the other end of the house. At least he had now found a cottage; perhaps next time he would be staying there.

  When she went upstairs to change, Helena was almost certain Neville and Chris would be alone. She was resigned to Neville’s eyes sweeping round in triumph as he noted the signs of preparation that would show his bluff had been successful.

  But she had, once again, misread her husband. It was, she reflected bleakly, becoming a habit. As she smoothed her hair in front of the glass on her dressing-table, she heard the wheels of Neville’s Jaguar crunching on the gravel below and, feeling foolish, stepped behind a curtain to peep out.

  Neville’s eyes flickered immediately to the window as he stepped from the car, but he did not see her. While Chris, stretching, climbed from the back, he went round to help his other passenger gallantly from her seat.

  Lilian Sheldon was wrapped in a luxuriant pale fur, its deep collar making a frame for her golden cap of hair. She laughed up at Neville as he opened the car door.

  As Helena crossed the upper landing, she recalled her old drama school coach’s advice. ‘Deep breaths, petal — take it in, let it out slowly. Three of those and you’re ready for anything.’ She was, she felt, about to make the most difficult entrance of her career.

  *

  Lilian was experiencing a certain reluctance to get out of the car. She was like a cat in her appreciation of comfort, and in here the seat was soft, she was warm, and the atmosphere was peaceful.

  One of her few consistent principles was never to go looking for hassles, and meeting Neville’s wife struck her as the perfect scenario for heavy hysterical scenes. She’d given those up for Lent ten years ago and managed to stick with it.

  It was, she had suspected, one of Neville’s little Harry-games. She didn’t usually mind Harry-games, which had a faintly sadistic edge that she found exciting; she’d never been what you might call a nice girl, and nice men made her eyes glaze over.

  She didn’t really understand Neville. He and his wife seemed to have sort of a weird relationship; the way he talked about her was like the way some guys talked about their mothers, and she’d really rather they cleaned this up with her included out.