“Gerald loved you.”
“I suppose he thought he did, for a while, anyway. But what he loved was an image, the person he wanted me to be. Not me at all.”
I was about to protest, to tell her she was wrong, that of course Gerald had cared for her. But then Phrynne suddenly came to a standstill. She took hold of my hands, gripping them tightly and almost painfully in both of hers. “Listen, Iris, I’ve never told anyone this, but there was someone else, another man I was going to marry. After Arthur, I mean, and a long time before I met Gerald. I met him in Naples when I was there with Arthur that time. God, I hated Naples. The heat, and the filth in the streets. I can’t stand the place, but that was where I met Alec, and where I fell in love properly for the first time in my life, isn’t that strange? I know what you think—that I’m not capable of love, at least not in the way you understand it. But Alec changed something in me. You could say he woke me up, and I think it might really have worked. He made me feel there was—I don’t know, a point to things, something to live for other than myself.”
“What happened, then? You’re not telling me you left him for Gerald?”
“No, Iris, I’m telling you he killed himself. Whatever I was to him, it turned out it wasn’t enough.”
We walked on in silence towards The Esplanade. Phrynne was holding my arm again, and when I turned towards her the lights from the terrace outlined her in silver. Her hair seemed to stand out in a nimbus about her head, and her eyes, half-closed against the chill, glinted metallically. She had that film star look about her, that combination of arch worldliness and fragility, and I felt myself consumed by the urge to kiss her, to take her face between my hands and press my mouth to hers until her lips parted and granted me admittance. I started back from her, confused and repulsed, yet unable to dispel the image of her tongue, sliding over her teeth like a live pink mollusc.
“Phrynne, I’m so sorry,” I managed to say.
“It’s a long time ago now,” Phrynne said. “Come on, let’s go back. I don’t know about you, but I could do with a drink.”
We returned to the pub, not along the front this time but through the streets of the town. There was not much to the place really, Phrynne was right, and if not for the tourist shops and eating places in the cluster of interconnected alleyways just south of the harbour, there would have been even less.
Plenty of churches, though. I counted five of them.
“Do you suppose that’s how the town got its name?” I wondered aloud. “Holy-haven?”
“I honestly don’t know,” Phrynne said. “It was Gerald who was interested in history, you know that as well as I do. That was probably why he wanted to come here. Always poking around inside old buildings, Gerald. The one thing I do remember is that they were having a bell-ringing practice the night we arrived. You wouldn’t believe the racket, once they all got going. The din seemed to go on half the night.”
“Things seem quiet enough now.”
“They’ve passed an anti-ringing statute, probably. Or lopped a couple of heads off. You know what people are like in the country.”
We both laughed then, and things seemed all right again. The lane leading up to The Bell was steeper than it had seemed going down, and we arrived at the pub out of breath but in good spirits. In the saloon bar a sturdily built, florid-faced man and two younger men who were clearly his sons sat hunched over one of the window tables engaged in a noisy discussion about football. All three had partially drained pint glasses in front of them and aside from a brief glance from one of the younger men they paid us no notice. A fourth, much older man sat in the far corner reading a newspaper. A pipe and a tin of tobacco lay, as yet untouched, on the table beside him. He had silvery, close-clipped hair and the kind of upright, straight-backed posture that reminded me of certain characters in the drawings by that comic book artist Freddy admired—Garrick Greer, his name was—who did all those satirical sketches about life in the army. Old codgers lounging in front of the fire at the officers’ club, reminiscing about how grand life had been when they were in charge of India.
Freddy found them tearingly funny but they left me cold.
Phrynne looked around the room, still smiling.
“It’s lovely and warm in here, isn’t it?” she said. When her eyes fell upon the man in the corner the colour drained from her face in less than a second.
“Colonel?” she whispered. She moved towards him, almost tripping over the corner of one of the deep-pile rugs that were scattered about. The man continued to read his paper, seemingly unaware that he had been spoken to. Only when Phrynne stood less than three paces from his chair did he finally look up.
“My apologies,” he said. He folded the newspaper over his knee. “Were you needing to speak with me?” He did not sound at all as I had expected. He spoke with an accent, French, or maybe Russian, I wasn’t sure. I remembered Danuta telling us her father was Polish, but had she not also mentioned that her father had died? This could not be him, surely?
Phrynne took a rapid step backwards.
“I’m most terribly sorry,” she said. “I’ve mistaken you for someone else.”
“I don’t mind being mistaken,” said the man, smiling at Phrynne in a way that made me feel distinctly uncomfortable. Phrynne must not have liked it either, because she made no attempt to prolong the conversation.
“I’m sorry for disturbing you,” she repeated. She nodded curtly then turned away, scooting back towards me at a near-run.
“I’m such an idiot,” she said, then giggled. Her cheeks were bright red.
“Who on Earth was that?” I darted a glance towards the man in his corner and saw he had gone back to reading the newspaper.
“Goodness only knows. I thought for a moment he was someone I knew, a Colonel Shotcroft—he was here when Gerald and I were here. Lovely chap, a real gentleman. But of course it couldn’t be—the Colonel was old, even then. He –.”
She left the sentence hanging in midair, and I supposed she didn’t want to say what I had guessed anyway: the Colonel would be dead by now, he would have to be.
“You were bound to think of him though, weren’t you, coming back here after so long?” I spoke in what I hoped was the voice of reason. “Anyway, there’s no harm done. I’m always seeing people in the street and thinking I know them from somewhere.”
“Well you would, Iris. Head in the clouds, that’s you. Let me buy you a drink before they throw us out on grounds on insanity.”
She seemed fully in control of herself again and as so often in the past I found myself in awe of her apparently endless supply of self confidence. I had never been into a pub by myself, and the idea of ordering drinks at the bar made me nervous, even though I knew the transaction was essentially no different from asking for a shoulder of lamb at the butchery counter.
Phrynne sauntered up to the bar as if she ordered alcohol in pubs every day of her life.
“We’ll have two whisky sodas, please,” she said. Her winning smile was back. I had rather expected to see Danuta serving behind the bar. A man was there instead. He was tall, with tanned bare forearms and a heavy gold signet ring on his right index finger. He wore his hair long, tied behind his head with what looked like an old shoelace. Freddy would have called him a layabout, but I thought the style suited him.
He looks like a merman, I thought. I could feel myself blushing.
“Coming right up.” He spoke with the local accent, like Danuta. I wondered if he was Danuta’s husband, the mysterious Robbie, or just someone who worked here. “Everything all right for you two ladies? Anything else I can get you?”
“I can think of one thing,” Phrynne said. She leaned forward across the bar, still smiling her winning smile. She tapped her fingers against the wood, placing her hand close to where the merman’s hand was resting. I realised to my horror that she was attempting to flirt with him.
“You must be Robbie,” I said quickly. “Thank you for bringing up our luggage.” About h
alf an hour after our arrival I had left my room to go to the bathroom, and discovered my own small haversack and Phrynne’s second carpet bag lined up neatly in the corridor outside. Observing Robbie now, I found it surprising that such a solidly built man could come and go so silently.
“We aim to please.” I could not help noticing that it was Phrynne he looked at as he said this, and not me. “And two whisky sodas.” He turned away to prepare the drinks. Phrynne compressed her lips in a silent smirk, slowly raising one eyebrow in a gesture that took me back so instantaneously to our schooldays that the urge to laugh aloud was almost irresistible.
Phrynne saw the look on my face and raised a hand to her forehead in a mock salute.
You beast, I mouthed.
“We aim to please,” Phrynne murmured, timing her speech to coincide exactly with the gaseous exhale of the soda siphon. “I think we’ll take these over by the fire,” she said in a normal voice to Robbie as he placed the two filled glasses on the bar. “Is it all right to add our drinks to our bill?”
“No problem at all. I’ll set up a tab for you, shall I?”
“That would be lovely.” She paused. “May I ask you a question?”
“Ask away.”
“Do you happen to know of a Colonel Shotcroft? Mike Shotcroft? He lived here for some years. At The Bell, I mean. I was wondering if you might have an address for him.”
Robbie shook his head. “Before my time, I’m afraid. Danny and I don’t take long-stay guests, never have done. You should have a word with Danny, though. She was in contact with the people who had this place before us. For a while she was, anyway. She might know something.”
“The Pascoes?”
“Is that what they were called? I think you’re right. But you’re best to ask Danny.”
“Thank you, I will.”
We carried our drinks over to the second window alcove. I was surprised that Phrynne had returned so readily to the subject of this Colonel Shotcroft. Her mention of the couple who ran The Bell previously—the Pascoes?—was also confusing. When I had asked her about them before, she claimed not to remember them.
“Was Colonel Shotcroft a friend of Gerald’s, then?” I asked her as we sat down.
“Not at all. Mike Shotcroft was my friend.” She took a gulp of her drink and then closed her eyes. “It’s honestly not important. We hardly knew him, really. But he was good to me once, and I’ve never forgotten. I’d like to know what happened to him, that’s all.”
“He’s probably moved away. People do, you know.”
“Probably.” She swirled the whisky around in her glass. “Are you glad we came?”
“Of course I am. It’s wonderful to be away from London. From everything, really. We should have done something like this years ago.”
“You’re right, we should. I’m sorry I’ve been so useless to you.”
“That’s rubbish. You’re my closest friend, Phrynne, you always have been.”
“Well, if that’s true then I’m lucky to have you. Most people would have given up on me years ago. Decades.”
She continued to play with her drink, gazing down at the square, shiny facets of the ice cubes as if expecting to see the future in them. A better future. I felt suddenly overwhelmed with tenderness for her. Of course it was true that she could be thoughtless, selfish even. But I had known her all my life, and that counted for a lot. In showing her lack of willingness to compromise, or be compromised, her selfishness was something I valued, even. She was still the same Phrynne. I thought of what she had told me down on the sea front, about the man she had loved, and who had killed himself in spite of that love. A tragedy like that would have destroyed most people. But it was impossible to believe that Phrynne would ever give up on life, no matter what happened to her.
Most other people I knew were dead by comparison.
“Now you listen to me,” I said to her. “There’s to be no more talk of this kind. You’re a good person, Phrynne. I know you don’t believe that, but you are. This is supposed to be a new start, remember? That goes for both of us.”
“You’re marvellous, do you know that?” She raised her glass. “Here’s to new beginnings.”
We clinked glasses, and I took a first long sip of my drink. I hadn’t drunk whisky for years, not since Freddy died. I was surprised to find I still had a taste for it.
“This takes me back,” Phrynne said.
“Takes you back how?”
“Do you remember the time we found all those empty whisky bottles in Harriet Wrongfoot’s supply cupboard?”
“Oh God, Phrynne. Trust you to bring that up. Of course I remember.” Harriet Wrightfoot was our Art mistress at Queen Charlotte’s. Phrynne always used to refer to her as Harriet Wrongfoot, or Leftfoot, or just plain Sinister. The incident with the whisky bottles had landed us in a great deal of trouble and for a time I seriously believed we would be expelled. Naturally Phrynne thought that was a hoot, too.
You know what it’s like when you begin to reminisce about the past? It’s as if the present, with its ambiguities, melts away. In the past all allegiances are cancelled, all outcomes are known, all time is forever. That’s how it feels, at least. Phrynne and I hadn’t talked about Queen Charlotte’s in years. Not since Phrynne married Gerald, anyway.
We swapped school stories all through dinner. Several times I found myself laughing so hard I could barely breathe. We retired to our rooms at around ten-thirty. We agreed it had been a long day. Both of us felt the need of an early night.
“Thank you for being here,” Phrynne said as we climbed the stairs to the upper landing. “I never thought I could be this happy again.”
I washed my arms and face and got into bed. I had planned to make a start on the Patricia Highsmith, but found I was too tired to concentrate. Just before I fell asleep I thought of Phrynne, what she had said about being happy.
I thought perhaps the pain of the past could be buried, after all.
If I am to tell this honestly, and there would be no point in telling it otherwise, then I am bound to admit to you that I was in love with Gerald Banstead, and although we never discussed the matter openly I knew that Gerald was in love with me, too.
There was never any question of us doing anything to alter our situation. Gerald was Freddy’s oldest friend—they had known one another since forever. Gerald couldn’t bear the idea of betraying that friendship, and neither could I. Freddy was a good man, he didn’t deserve that. Besides, there was Ian to think of. To act would be to destroy everything. We both knew that things were best left as they were, for everyone’s sake.
And in spite of the circumstances, our love always brought us more joy than it caused us anguish. It began slowly, as the deepest and most abiding affections often do. Gerald had never married—Freddy once hinted to me that he had been let down badly as a young man, an emotional jolt from which he had never fully recovered—and he was often at our house, both the Leighton Road house and later, in Highgate. In the beginning I saw him simply as Freddy’s friend. It was only as we came to know one another better that we realised how much we had in common. We both loved music, and often attended concerts together. Gerald had a passion for art, and even collected in a small way. Some of our happiest times together were spent on trains, heading out to obscure sale rooms in the suburbs on the trail of some minor painter whom Gerald stood convinced was an unrecognised genius.
Freddy never minded these excursions. In fact he encouraged them. He didn’t care for music at all, and the art world bored him. He had his whist drives and his chess club. He often used to remark on what pleasure it gave him, to see us enjoying each other’s company as we did.
When Gerald met Phrynne, everything changed. It never occurred to me even for a second that there was any danger. Gerald was twenty years older than Phrynne and not even remotely the kind of man she would glance at twice. As for Gerald, he never seemed to notice other women at all.
On the evening they first came together my
only concern was that Phrynne would be so bored she would end up overdoing things in the drinks department. Freddy hated seeing anyone drunk, women especially.
Of course at the time I knew nothing of Phrynne’s recent tragedy, of her lover’s suicide. If I had done, I might have been more cautious in introducing them. Gerald Banstead must have seemed to offer everything—stability and security, common sense—her dead lover had not. As for Gerald, did he simply decide that it was time for him to marry, to seek some security of his own? If that was so then I was hardly in a position to criticise, although this still did not explain his decision to throw himself at a woman who was bound by her very nature to bring him nothing but heartache.
Because Gerald did throw himself at Phrynne. Almost from the moment he saw her, he was like a man in a delirium.
Suddenly there were no more phone calls, no more impromptu outings to Amersham or Staines. Suddenly I was just Freddy’s wife. It was like a bereavement, but a bereavement I was to suffer alone, without the comfort or even the knowledge of family or friends.
When Phrynne asked me to be her maid of honour, of course I had to say yes.
“You are an angel,” Phrynne said. “If you only knew how much this means to me.”
For the whole of that summer and the following winter I felt I was in hell. As winter passed into spring I forced myself, at first unwillingly and then with growing enthusiasm, to take up new interests. I even revived a much-cherished ambition to research and write a history of our house in Highgate. I had discussed this idea with Gerald but never pursued it, or at least not properly. Now it became my main focus of attention.
The more time passed, and with the deaths of first Freddy and later Gerald, the more I wondered if I had been lucky after all, to exchange love for freedom.
I still missed Gerald, though. I missed our outings. I missed the little secrets we held together, harmless tokens of intimacy but treasured ones, nonetheless.
The scars of some betrayals do not fade.
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