by Burke, John
Now who was wallowing in her family pride? The Sicilians weren’t the only ones.
“Yes,” she said. “That’s right. Brigid.”
“She will talk to this man. If she is marrying him so soon, she will tell him everything.”
“Probably.” Nell hadn’t thought of that, but could not deny that he was right. “But it’ll stay in the family. Mrs Hemming won’t chatter to people outside.”
“You are sure?”
“Does it matter?”
“No. No, it does not matter. But you and I, we can talk better if not everybody else is talking at the same time, I think.”
“We’ll tell Mrs Hemming only as much as she needs to know,” Nell assured him. “And you’ll be quieter there, in the hotel with a lot of others, than you would be if you stayed with us.” She slowed for traffic lights. “Sooner or later there’s bound to be some publicity, whether you stay or go.”
She admitted to herself that she was probing, hoping for him to indicate what his plans were. He did not reply, but peered up at a new block of shops and flats going up on the intersection.
He said: “Are Blythe and Johnson … I mean, is Mr Johnson building these?”
“It’s a development by a builder from Maidstone.”
“Ah — competition?”
“We don’t run the entire town, you know.”
“You need a Mafia.” Peter laughed more loudly than seemed justifiable.
“Does it really still…” Nell stopped herself. It would sound too patronising to ask if such barbaric societies still held their old sway in modern times. She was sure she had read something about it somewhere but was left with only the memory of improbable melodrama. To ask questions would imply that she believed lurid newspapers and lurid films.
But if she was shirking, he wasn’t. He was quick to pick her up. As the lights changed and she sped away up the winding road to the hotel, he said:
“You think time can change the timeless? The Mafia is still there. Not as strong as in the old days — you can escape from it now, you can take a bus into Palermo and fly in an aeroplane to the mainland and cease to be a Sicilian — but it is still alive. No more bandits and farm bosses: now it is a big power in property development. All new and modern, but still the same. You understand? Perhaps it is in my blood, too. Perhaps I can help you here in Lurgate!” Again he laughed.
Taking it for granted, she thought dismally, that he’s going to be brought
into the firm and looked after. No demands, he had said. But here was the hint of one of the demands he would sooner or later make.
They reached Fernrock Hotel. The porter shuffled out from behind the desk and, after strenuously denying that there was a room to spare, accepted her word that the arrangement had been made by phone with Mrs Hemming. He groaned over the cases and tottered towards the lift with them, followed by Peter Blythe.
Just as the lift was scraping up to the second floor, Mrs Hemming came along the corridor from the dining room.
“Oh, it’s you, Mrs Johnson. You’ve brought your friend?”
“He’s just gone upstairs. He’ll be down to sign the register in a few minutes, I expect.”
“I’ve just made myself some coffee,” said Mrs Hemming. It was her equivalent of an invitation.
They went through into her sitting room. Nell wondered how much to say; whether, indeed, to say anything. But Brigid would talk to Martin and Martin would talk to his mother, and it was better that she should not be taken by surprise and have reason to be surly about it afterwards.
Nell said: “Betty…”
It was difficult to get the name out. Several times before she had tried to get them on to Christian name terms, without success. Obstinately, in spite of the impending marriage of their children, they remained Mrs Hemming and Mrs Johnson.
“Taken by surprise, were you?” said Mrs Hemming. She reached for the coffee pot. “Black or white? I like it black.”
“Black, thank you.”
“Hm.”
“Yes, we weren’t expecting this … this friend.”
“From abroad, Martin said. Or that’s what Brigid led him to think. Foreign?”
“Half foreign,” said Nell. “English extraction.” She took a deep breath. “I hope you won’t say anything to anyone, but…”
“Who says I gossip about my guests?”
“Nobody. Of course not. That’s why we particularly wanted him to come here.”
“Something funny about him?”
“His name’s Peter Blythe,” said Nell.
“Hm. Doesn’t sound very foreign to me.” Then Mrs Hemming’s fingers tightened on the sugar bowl as she was about to push it towards Nell. Her knuckles were white and skeletal. “Blythe?” she said. “Blythe? You mean … some relation’s turned up?”
“Walter’s grandson.”
There was a faint rustle of plumbing within the wall. Somewhere a door slammed. There was a gust of radio music, turned up and hurriedly turned down. Mrs Hemming said: “No.”
“I promise you it came as a great surprise to us, but…”
“No.” It was almost a shout. “It’s rubbish. He never had a son, let alone a grandson. Or a daughter. Or…”
“A son,” said Nell. “Apparently she didn’t know until after the disappearance. After she herself had gone away.”
She reached for the cup of coffee which Mrs. Hemming had poured for her, but Mrs Hemming’s arm was rigidly in the way, her hand still clamped on the sugar bowl. It did not move. She said vehemently:
“And you’ve listened to a tale like that? You’re letting someone put that over on you?”
“The evidence…”
“Evidence? How could there be any evidence for a pack of lies? I never heard of anything like it. Never in all my born days.”
Nell was speechless. She could have expected a show of surprise, but this outburst baffled her. Mrs Hemming was pale with rage. She could not have been more indignant if Nell had come here to say that they had decided her precious Martin wasn’t good enough for Brigid and that the wedding was to be considered off.
Martin … that must be it. She was afraid of the consequences to him. She wanted the Johnson firm and the Johnson money for her son: she didn’t want it shared with a descendant of Walter Blythe.
It was a grubby, distasteful thought. Nell tried to push it aside. She tried again: “Betty, you mustn’t imagine for one moment…”
“I’d like to see this impostor.”
“Please. We’ve asked you to find accommodation for him because we trust you. We don’t want gossip or publicity until we’ve sorted everything out. If you’re going to take against him for some reason…”
“For some reason!” Mrs Hemming echoed despairingly.
Then she sat back, breathing hard. Outside there was the faint tinkle of the bell from the reception desk and the sound of shuffling footsteps. It was followed by the clank of the lift gate being closed.
Mrs Hemming got up. She went to the door and opened it. Nell stood up, but did not dare to go too close.
Over Mrs Hemming’s shoulder she saw Peter Blythe crossing the hall from the lift to the desk. Then he was obscured from her view as Mrs Hemming walked out to meet him.
Nell forced herself to turn towards her cup of coffee. She drank it, and poured herself another cup. At the end of five minutes Mrs Hemming returned and closed the door behind her.
“Peter Blythe,” she said accusingly.
“The name doesn’t really fit, does it?” Nell ventured. “He does look so Italian.” She hesitated, then asked: “Would you sooner we tried somewhere else?”
“He can stay.”
*
Nell drove home slowly. She felt weak. She was battered and bewildered. She had to force herself to concentrate on the road and drive steadily. With luck she would be able to get home. There would come a moment when she would simply have to throw up her hands and cry enough, that’s enough, no more. She wanted someone to
take over control of the car, to put it away in the garage, to lift her out and to put her to bed.
When she walked slowly and delicately into the house as though treading on some brittle treasure, she found that Brigid had gone up to her room. Arthur was waiting, his eyes lined with dark rims.
“All set?” he said. “All tucked up and comfy?”
“I wish I were.”
“Darling — do you feel as grim as I do?”
She went slowly up to him and put her head against his shoulder. His chin dabbed her hair. He nudged her face up towards his and kissed her.
He said: “You’ve got beautiful ears. But I’ve told you that before, haven’t I?”
“I don’t mind being told again.” Because he had said this about her ears years ago and because so obviously meant what he said — Nell had kept her hair short and severe so that her ears were always visible. She relaxed. He steered her towards the stairs. Vaguely she felt that this was all wrong: he was the one who was tired, the one with the heaviest responsibility to bear, the one who had to face all the unpalatable decisions; she ought to be looking after him, making things easy for him. But it was a relief to have him taking charge of her. She let him push her gently, tenderly towards their bedroom.
“I’ll run your bath,” he said.
“No.” The effort of getting into the bath and drying herself afterwards was too great. Just the thought of the effort was too great. “Not tonight. I just want to collapse.”
“Leave some space for me. I’m pretty collapsible myself right now.”
When they were in bed and the lights were out, she told him about Mrs Hemming’s reactions. “You must have imagined it,” he said. She tried to argue with him, and he said: “We’re all a bit keyed-up. Frankly, I can’t see straight, and I don’t suppose you can either.” She wanted to persist, but her tongue grew slurred and drowsy.
It might have been a few minutes later or a few hours — but no, he would hardly have woken her up in the middle of the night just to mumble about Brigid — when she was sure he said: “Rivalry … handsome young Latin type on the scene … Martin’ll have to hold on like grim death. Still, he’s coming into the straight. He ought to be all right.”
Nell tried to tell him that Peter Blythe wasn’t Brigid’s type, but not so long ago she had been saying that Martin wasn’t Brigid’s type, and now she hated the thought of Martin not being strong enough to hold on.
She must have said something without knowing it, for Arthur muttered: “Didn’t know you were such a xenophobe.”
“I’m not, but I don’t want … don’t want…” She hadn’t the energy to finish the sentence. Maybe it was all a dream anyway. All she was sure of was that she didn’t want Peter Blythe under her roof and didn’t want him near her husband or daughter.
The gulls flew in from the sea and along the estuary like enemy aircraft and swooped greedily on to the ridges of a ploughed field. The sun was bright and the cars from London were already creeping in on Lurgate. It was literally a matter of creeping: somewhere along the main coast road there was a traffic jam, and metal and tempers grew hot as time went by and only a trickle of cars squeezed through.
Brigid drove inland along the main road for a mile, then branched off and headed for the low foot-hills.
Peter said: “You must not frown when you drive.”
“The sun’s in my eyes.”
“It is not that. You are too serious. If you frown, you will get lines round your eyes. And you are too beautiful for that.”
Brigid continued to look at the road and at the same time tried to let the muscles of her face relax without allowing him to see that she was obeying him.
He said: “You would like me to drive? Then you may look at the scenery.”
“I know the scenery,” she said. “You don’t. The idea is for me to drive while you look at it.”
“You are kind. I am not used to it, you understand. Always I show people round and point out this mountain and that bay. I do the running commentary. But here I know nothing.”
She was not sure whether this meant that he would like her to point out the main landmarks. Trying to think of something interesting to say, she realised how little she knew about the most familiar scenes all around her. They were running parallel with the coast for a short distance, and she could have pointed out the curve of the bay … and then added what? It was Lurgate Bay, and that was that. The Vikings had been here in the past, but she didn’t know how often or what they had done — nothing they hadn’t done everywhere else, she supposed. The electricity pylons marched across the levels and stumped into the hills; and they were simply electricity pylons.
Brigid said: “There are some interesting old churches further inland. But I don’t know if you’re particularly keen…”
“I am at your mercy.”
Seawards, a row of red and white chalets perched on the sea wall as though on an assembly line. Below them was a caravan site, a town on wheels, ready to run for it if the sea broke through the wall.
“You are doing it again,” said Peter.
“Mm?”
“You are making the faces. You must not frown. Do not take life too seriously. Do not be too English.”
“You’re half English,” said Brigid. And because of this sensation of his needling her, she needled back. “At least, that’s your story.”
“Half English,” he acknowledged. “But not all. I am not so serious. I am not bitter.”
“Nor am I.”
“Let your hair down,” he said.
His fluent English twisted down odd by-ways from time to time. Some of his slang phrases were up to date, some had an archaic ring. North Country expressions mingled with fragments of Knightsbridge patter, only to be shaken up and rattled against a fistful of Americanisms. One could play quite a fascinating game working out the origins of the people he had shown round Palermo and Rome — the things he had learnt from them while they supposed themselves to be learning from him.
“We may stop here?” he said.
Obediently she drew in on the grass verge. They had reached the first ridge, a shallow petrified wave breaking on the edge of the coastal plain. Beyond were the orchards, their blossom foaming in the troughs of the rolling landscape.
“It must look strange to you,” she ventured. “Very different from what you’re used to.”
“Yes. It is so green. So much green — the land and the sea. In my country it is harder. All much harder and brighter. In my country” — his lips drew back from his teeth — “we are more … more certain. Your green, it has not made up its mind. But our rocks and trees and the sea — the red and the brown and the blue, all so very definite. You must come one day and see them.”
“We’re going to Malta after the wedding,” said Brigid.
“Ah. Malta.” He shrugged. “So.”
He had been looking out across the land but now he focused disconcertingly on her. His eyes gloated; they were repellent and impersonal. Yet she wasn’t prudish and she wasn’t a hypocrite, and she had to admit that his sheer animal vitality plucked a chord within her.
She shifted in her seat and pointed over the orchards to the long white concrete boxes of the research centre, two miles away.
“That’s where Martin works.”
“So. Your Martin. He is what — a fruit packer?”
“Certainly not.”
Peter laughed. He put his hand on her knee. When she jerked away, he smiled as though it did not matter in the least. He had all the time in the world.
“It is no bad thing,” he said, “a packer of fruit. But go on. You will tell me, what does he do?”
She had no wish to tell him. She would have preferred him to talk about himself. Although her mother and father had asked her nothing specific when they knew Peter had been urging her to spend an afternoon showing him the countryside, she knew that they looked forward to her returning with some indication of what his plans were, how he envisaged the pay-off
, just what was in his mind. Tonight he was to have a final vetting by old Mr Farnham. If there was anything they should know before then, it would be a good thing for Brigid to learn about it.
But Peter was playing the part of a leisurely young tourist, not merely allowing her to do the talking but expecting her to do it.
“Martin,” she said reluctantly, “works on pest control.”
She was sure he would grin, and he did — pretending to conceal it but not really meaning to keep it too secret.
“That must be important,” he said. “The world needs to control pests.”
“He spent two years at the agricultural college” — she waved vaguely beyond the further, higher shadows of the downs — “and then they took him on at the laboratories here. It’s a centre for studying the effects of chemical insecticides — not just the direct properties, but possible side-effects.”
“Worthy,” Peter nodded. “Very worthy.” She had told him the basic facts and had no intention of telling him anymore. She would not expose her love and enthusiasm to his cynical examination. To her, Martin was like one of the atom scientists with an acutely sensitive conscience about the possible use or misuse of his work: like those physicists who had struggled to limit the applications of atomic power, he was both a scientist and a watchdog. He believed in careful experiment and rigid control. He was painstaking in checking for side-effects and for long-term dangers. If he felt it was too soon for an untried poison to be put on the market, he was capable of working against his own employers. Recent deaths of birds and animals, and the indications of possible illness in human beings, had persuaded them that even in stubborn opposition he was valuable to them.
Peter Blythe was not the kind of man who would understand all this. These were not his values. He would deride them; make them sound stodgy and unadventurous.
And what was so superior about him? A tourist guide, probably cunning and unscrupulous, knowing all the rackets. A young man who had come to Lurgate in search of an easy living.