Cuckoo

by Anne Piper

  “Well, of all the infernal cheek,” he roared.

  “Who? What?” I was quite bewildered.

  “That Swiss gigolo, paying all the bills.”

  “But you’re paying for me.”

  “That’s not at all the same thing — at least by God, it had better not be — if I thought —”

  “But why shouldn’t Mary have somebody, if you’ve got somebody?”

  “Mary doesn’t want anybody,” he bellowed. “Can’t you understand? If she doesn’t want me, she can’t want anyone else, I won’t have it. Dancing too, and with an American, as if a Swiss wasn’t bad enough without dragging in an American. Everyone knows they can scarcely be trusted to wait till after dinner. My God, I’ve a good mind to go straight over and put a stop to the whole thing.”

  “But Tom, they’re having such fun.”

  “Fun — fun, they’ve no right to be having any fun. Haven’t they any shame? Sponging on someone else like that? It’s disgusting.”

  “I hadn’t thought of it like that. I was so glad they weren’t miserable. Wouldn’t you like some supper? It’s all ready.”

  “Sardines and baked beans again, I suppose.”

  “No, sausages and mash.”

  “Well stick them in the oven. I couldn’t eat a mouthful at the moment, I’m going to have a cold bath.”

  I licked the tears off the end of my nose so that they wouldn’t fall in the frying pan as I moved the sausages to a dish in the oven. They would be hard and dry in twenty minutes, and they looked so good now. I blew my nose hard and went into the bedroom to powder it. I let my hair down and brushed it out the way Tom liked it.

  So it happened that I first saw Claire in the looking-glass, standing behind me in her bedroom doorway in a new black suit.

  “May I ask why you are using my room?” she said very sweetly.

  “Claire,” I yelped, spinning round, “but you weren’t coming back for another week.”

  “I bought some clothes so the money ran out. You haven’t answered my question, do I by any chance see a pair of gentleman’s slippers under that chair? My dear Prue, I believe you’re up to something, you’ve no idea how prettily guilty you look. Has Brian come clean at last?”

  At that moment, while I was still desperately planning to smuggle Tom out of the flat, he began to sing “Auprès de ma blonde” raucously in the bath.

  “Ah, the gentleman is with us, I hear,” Claire said. “How delightful, I’m agog to meet him, it’s not, you understand, Prue, that I grudge you a bit of fun, but I think it would have been better taste to stick to your own bedroom. However, just move the stuff out now, and we’ll say no more about it. I’m ravenous, I hope you haven’t had your supper.” She kicked off her shoes and lay back on the bed.

  “I think you’d better go out, Claire. There’s hardly anything to eat, and what there is is sausages. You wouldn’t like them at all. Please do.”

  I stood in front of her twisting my hankie in my fingers. “Then by the time you come back,” I went on wildly, “I’ll have everything cleared up so that you wouldn’t know anyone had been here.”

  “My dear Prue, I refuse to be driven out of my own home on the first evening. I shall find something to eat. Why are you so anxious to get rid of me? I’ll be very polite to the young man, I promise you.”

  Tom burst out of the bathroom in his usual riotous way, romped into the bedroom in nothing but his dressing-gown, and that wide open, shouting:

  “Where have you hidden my slippers, darling?”

  My hands fell limply to my sides, and I waited for the storm to break over me. Claire reached for the second pillow and placed it under her head.

  “Good evening, Tom,” she said. “How kind of you to join the reception committee.”

  Tom’s self-control was not nearly so strong. He blushed horribly and wrestled with his dressing-gown cord.

  “Do help him, Prue,” Claire said. “One half is trailing behind him. So clever of you both to guess I’d be coming back today. I like to see Tom so much at home here, nothing like a bath when you come out to supper.”

  Tom still hadn’t spoken. He just stared at Claire with his mouth open, finally he said feebly:

  “I can explain everything, Claire.”

  “Really, Tom? that would be most interesting. Run and turn your sausages, Prue.”

  “No,” I said. “I’m not going. All this concerns me as much as anyone else.” I sat down on a chair, leaving Tom standing between us. He kept his eyes on Claire, who black and neat on her yellow counterpane, with her short, dark hair unruffled certainly looked her best.

  “Well, Tom dear, carry on. I’m longing to hear why you seduced my poor innocent niece.”

  “You know perfectly well why, Claire. You know what a dangerous mood I was in when I left here.”

  “Quite the mad dog. Yes, I remember.”

  “It was all a terrible mistake.”

  Oh no, Tom, not just to be brushed off as a terrible mistake. Please it must have mattered to you too, don’t make it into nothing for Claire’s mockery to shrivel. I looked down at my large feet, planted wide apart, feeling hopelessly young again, hopelessly outside this grown-up battle.

  “Poor Tom, perhaps the little siren led you astray?”

  “No, Claire. It was entirely my own fault, and I’m paying for it now.”

  “Really? You didn’t seem to be suffering very deeply when I arrived.”

  “If you want to know, I was singing because I’d just decided to go back to my wife — if it’s not too late.”

  “What a splendid idea — the lucky little woman’s reward for patient virtue.”

  “Patient virtue my foot,” roared Tom, suddenly remembering. “Mary’s gadding about all over Paris in an utterly brazen fashion with a Swiss gigolo and an American journalist. She’s abandoned the children completely to some irresponsible foreigner. By the time I get there she’ll probably be a drug addict.”

  “Oh surely not. If she’s having that much fun she won’t need drugs yet awhile. Poor Tom, how sad for you to be so attractive. If you hadn’t those tawny eyes and that suggestive mouth, you need never have left your poor wife, and never have had any of these anxieties. I do feel for you really, but I expect you’ll find a little blandishment will bring her to heel again.”

  “God, Claire, I’d forgotten, forgotten how mad you make me.” He sat on the bed now, close to her.

  “Forgotten so soon, Tom? In less than three months?” She lay with her hands clasped behind her head, smiling slightly, her jacket had fallen open to show a white jersey made of some very clinging material.

  They had both forgotten me. I blundered to the door scarcely seeing through my tears and my hair, it seemed sad to desert the poor sausages, but I could not stay another minute in the flat. I banged the front door and half fell down the stairs. I ran and ran without stopping till I reached the park. Then I threw myself down on a dark piece of grass and cried myself silly.

  It must have been after ten before I came back to the flat. I could hear Claire humming in the sitting-room, I paused significantly in the doorway expecting another scene, I’d tied my hair back with a piece of string I found in my pocket, there were grass stains on my blue cotton skirt, I’d put on my glasses to hide some of the redness of my eyes. “I don’t care,” I said to myself furiously, “I don’t care. It’ll never matter again what I look like.”

  Claire stood by the window in her cream linen housecoat, a glass of gin in one hand, she turned, as she heard me come in, with such a look of pussy contentment on her face that I couldn’t help guessing what had happened.

  “Oh Claire,” I said, my voice trembling. “How could you?”

  “Secret drinking? Yes, I am a bit young to start that.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” My knees suddenly gave under me, and I sat on the arm of a chair. “Where’s Tom?”

  “Gone.”

  “Gone?” I could not prevent the squeak in my question. �
�Yes. Right out of both our lives for good, and about time too. Winging back like a wounded bird to the motherly bosom of his wife. Don’t kick that chair, please.”

  “Didn’t he leave a letter — a message or anything for me?”

  “I’m afraid not. He was in rather a hurry, oh yes, just as he was going downstairs he called back, ‘Say goodbye to Prue for me and tell her I’ll write.’”

  “Oh — was that all?”

  “Yes. And by the way, while I remember, Prue, I want you to clear out too.”

  “Me?” I could not take it in from sorrow and tiredness. “Yes, you there, with the glasses and the Lorelei hair. I want you right out of here, first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “But, Claire —”

  “No buts, I’m sick of seeing you about the place, you little slut. I’ve got a week of my leave to come and I’m not going to spoil it looking at you. Besides, I have an interesting diplomat I met in Paris coming to dinner tomorrow night.”

  “But, Claire — where can I go?”

  “I dare say the Y.W.C.A. would be delighted to take you in. You can go back and sit on your precious graves like the little vampire you are for all I care.”

  As I bumped blindly down the corridor to my room I heard Claire start to hum, “Auprès de ma blonde.”

  CHAPTER V

  Edith did not seem particularly pleased to see me.

  “Why, Miss Prue,” she said. “I do believe you’ve grown again. Looking pasty too, with that bad London air.” She ignored the significance of my suitcase on her doorstep.

  “You stopping with Mrs. Williams?” she asked.

  “No, Edith, I was wondering if I could stop with you for a little?”

  “With me? But, Miss Prue — I only have the one bed and that’s my own, the one your dear Grannie gave me.”

  “Yes, I know. But I thought I could sleep on the two armchairs in the parlour.”

  “You sleep on two chairs, Miss Prue? That wouldn’t be right, you who’ve always had the softest of beds. Why don’t you go to Mrs. Williams?”

  She peered closely at me. “You haven’t said anything you shouldn’t, to displease Mrs. Williams? the kindest lady that ever walked the village, your dear Grannie always excepted.”

  “No. But I don’t want to go there. Liz and Mary are both away. Please let me come in for a little, Edith dear, I’m so tired.” She suddenly relented.

  “There, there, poor lamb, come along then and have a cup of tea, the kettle’s on the boil.”

  I sat down thankfully on the window seat in the kitchen.

  “My word, Edith, your michaelmas-daisies are a sight this year, best I’ve seen in the whole village, walking from the station.”

  She straightened her back at that.

  “That’s so,” she said. “They come round from the Red Lion Saturday night to see my daisies.”

  “The golden-rod is good too.”

  “Any fool can grow ‘goodbye summer.’ What’s all this about stopping here with me?” She lowered herself carefully into a chair by the kitchen table and stirred her tea vigorously.

  “Well, it’s like this, Edith. I’ve had a quarrel with Aunt Claire.”

  “You shouldn’t have done that. I never liked your Mother much, and I dare say I wouldn’t fancy your Aunt Claire, but you don’t want to quarrel with her when she’s all you’ve got.”

  “I thought perhaps I’d got you, Edith.”

  “Now then, Miss Prue, you well know that’s not the same. Blood is thicker than water when all is said and done, I’d be glad to help you out, but I don’t want to take sides in any quarrel.”

  “You won’t have to, Edith, really. She told me to go away for a bit, and I don’t know where to go.”

  “Well, if it’s just for a bit. But you know I’ve only got the pension, and that pound a week your dear Grannie left for me. And that won’t go far to providing for a healthy young woman that’s always been used to the best.”

  “Oh I know — I know. I wasn’t asking you to take me in for nothing. Do you think perhaps thirty shillings a week would cover what I eat?”

  “I don’t know I’m sure. I haven’t seen you eat for a good many years now, but I dare say we’ll manage, and if we don’t I’ll have to ask you for more. How’s that?”

  “Thank you, dear Edith, and I really will be quite comfortable in the two chairs.”

  “Aren’t you going back to that music school of yours?”

  “I don’t know I haven’t made up my mind. I’ve got a lot of things to decide while I’m here.”

  *

  All the first week I waited for Tom’s letter to come. All the second I knew it wouldn’t.

  “You ought to get out more, Miss Prue, this fine weather we’re having.” Edith stood in the parlour door with dustpan and brush, itching to clear up after me.

  I turned away from the window. The morning post had been, anyway, I’d watched him right down the street, treading firmly past the house.

  “All right, Edith, I’ll go and do the graves for tomorrow. What flowers can I take?”

  “Anything you fancy, but pick them a bit from the back.”

  I blinked in the brightness of the little garden, the early mists had curled away, and the sun struck flakes of light off the river. I walked carefully along the paths, avoiding the thick frost-like dew on the grass. I picked a big bunch of michaelmas-daisies, and crimson and brown chrysanthemums, and took the shears from Edith’s scullery.

  Out in the village I waved to several people I knew waiting in the Saturday butcher’s queue, and stopped to talk to Mrs. Jack knitting in the doorway of the Post Office. I sang as I walked downhill to the churchyard. I was still happy as I knelt on the three graves in turn, clipping the grass which straggled in all directions. I fetched some water from the stream, arranged the flowers as well as I could, michaelmas-daisies for my grandfather, chrysanthemums for my grandmother and both for my mother. I prised out the slugs, which always like to get down between the vases and their holes in the earth. Then it was all done, and there was only me to see, and I sat down on the stone edge of my Mother’s grave aware of an awful emptiness. In all my life I’d never felt so deserted and lonely.

  “They are all gone into the world of light,” I kept saying, but I didn’t even believe that, I didn’t even believe I’d ever see any of them again.

  I just knew I was quite alone now and for evermore, but I bit my hand not to cry. Crying hadn’t done me much good lately — less crying, and more toughness. I smiled thinking how Liz used to lecture me, and I took a deep breath, and made a vast resolution to stand on my own feet. I thought I must do something to mark this great moment of my final growing up, and I looked about for something to swear an oath on.

  Then I saw the shears lying by the marble and it came to me all in a flash that what I must do to start a new life was cut off my hair. Tom always liked my hair particularly, if I cut it off it would be ending Tom and beginning again. I laid my glasses on the grave and began to chop at my left plait, it was surprisingly obstinate, twice the shears stuck and pulled rather painfully at my hair, I suppose I had blunted them on the grass. In the end I untwisted the left plait and cut through one thickness. I stopped, panting a little, and put out a finger to touch the swathe of gleaming hair lying beside the chrysanthemums. It did not look as if it had ever belonged to me.

  I had my back to the lych gate and the grass muffled approaching footsteps until a shadow came between me and the sun and I looked up, guilty and startled, clutching the shears, to see Brian standing there.

  “Goodness, you frightened me,” I said smiling suddenly.

  “Mrs. Jack told me you were down here. Can I help at all?”

  He crouched on the opposite side of the grave looking inquiringly at my lopsidedness. I had forgotten how brown his eyes were.

  “No thank you, I’m just cutting my hair,” I said carelessly.

  “Well, if you hold the hair I think I could make a straighter line on the o
ther side.”

  “Could you? All right.” I held out the shears to him and knelt on the stone edging with my neck bent like Mary Queen of Scots. He came closer and sat down on the other edge, with the little strip of clipped grass, the flowers and my cut hair between us.

  “I think it would be easier to get the line even, if you unplait it.”

  “Sorry.” I loosened the right side and handed him the ends. He held them a moment, looking doubtful.

  “I suppose you really do want to cut it, Prue?”

  “I must now. I can’t go about looking like a half-clipped topiary peacock.”

  “It’ll probably grow again.”

  “It would … if I let it. Do cut now, Brian, please.”

  “All right,” he began to chop very fast, as if he were angry about something, and with the last strands he jabbed the point of the shears into my neck, quite hard. I squeaked and put my hand over the place.

  “Oh Lord … Prue darling … what have I done?” I looked up to see him staring at me horrified, the shears open in his hand.

  “Do put those things down,” I said, trying to laugh. “You’ll be cutting my nose off next.” I could feel the blood sticky under my fingers. “Have you got a hankie, Brian?” He found a greyish one in his trouser pocket and scrambled on to the middle of the grave, disturbing all my flowers.

  “Here, let me see it.” He put my head down across his knee and examined the cut carefully.

  “I don’t think it’s deep.” I could feel his hand trembling. “Of course it’s not deep … it just hurts.”

  “Oh, darling.” He laid his hankie on the wound and tried to move me into his arms. I was afraid of sitting on my glasses, and there was rather a muddle with the michaelmas-daisies. “Prue, you do know you are the last person in the world I would want to hurt?”

  “Am I? I always thought you were in love with Liz.”

  “Good heavens no. I mean, I like Liz, but I’ve been in love with you for years now.”

  “Oh damn.” I sat up miserably. “You mustn’t be. I suppose I’ll have to tell you why. I am a wicked woman.”

  “You don’t have to tell me, Prue. I know all about that.”