WELCOME STRANGER

by MARY HOCKING

  In June Ben dined with Austin and Judith at a restaurant in St Martin’s Lane. The occasion was the publication of the book of Geoffrey’s drawings. It was not the kind of book to merit a launching party; and, in any case, Austin’s firm did not consider that providing large quantities of bad wine for literary critics and journalists did much in the way of increasing the sale of books. Ben, who had no wish for publicity, was well-content to have the opportunity of being with the two of them. By the time the main course arrived, they had exhausted the subject of the book.

  Beyond the window a placard outside a newsagents announced ‘Soviets say No,’ On this occasion, it was the Marshall Plan to assist in European Rehabilitation to which they were saying no, on the grounds that US aid would constitute an infringement of national sovereignty. Their detractors, of whom there were many even among ardent socialists, said it was in their interests for Europe to remain weak.

  ‘Destruction, not rehabilitation, is what they thrive on,’ Judith said.

  ‘It’s more complex than that,’ Austin, himself a mild socialist, protested.

  ‘I sometimes think there are just two kinds of people,’ Judith said. ‘Those who want to break us down; and those who want to build us up. The Russians are the breakers down.’ Most of her judgements related to people, only a few minor adjustments being required when considering the behaviour of nations. That morning Austin had dismissed her comments on the work of one of his authors in a particularly cavalier manner.

  Austin shrugged his shoulders in mock despair, but Ben said, ‘In which category would you place your mother?’

  ‘A builder-up,’ Judith replied promptly. ‘She wants to help people to find themselves, which isn’t to say that she always succeeds. Whereas some people are only concerned with putting others down.’

  ‘In order to build someone up, you have to be strong yourself.’ Austin had never learnt that a woman’s asides are more important than the main theme. ‘The Russians, at the moment, are weakened, and they are fundamentally insecure.’

  Judith, tiring of the subject, said, ‘Well, I wouldn’t mind a bit of Marshall Aid, anyway. I’m sick to death of queueing for things that other people get on the black market. Do you know that Alice gets up at six in the morning to queue for nylon stockings – nylon, mind you, not silk! – at some scruffy little place at the Elephant and Castle!’

  ‘How is Alice?’ Ben asked. ‘I took her out to lunch when her book came out, but she didn’t seem very excited about it.’

  ‘She got one or two good notices,’ Austin said. ‘She may have hoped for more.’

  ‘But there hadn’t been time for any notices when I saw her. It can’t have been that. She didn’t eat much, either – which isn’t like Alice.’

  ‘She’s not a happy girl just now,’ Judith agreed. ‘We have been quite worried about her, haven’t we?’

  ‘She’s in love.’ Austin refused to admit worrying about his stepdaughter.

  ‘Oh, that’s your answer to all women’s troubles! Find the man! I think something upset her during that dreadful time she had in Norfolk.’

  ‘Then it was a man, not flood water. She’s in love, I tell you. It’s plain as a pikestaff!’ And then, looking at Ben, he thought, oh my goodness, I shouldn’t have said that!

  Judith said grudgingly, ‘I think you may be right this time. She’s thinner than I’ve ever seen her. I would have thought she would have talked to Louise about it, but she doesn’t seem to have done.’

  ‘Did you like her book?’ Ben asked Austin rather loudly.

  Austin accepted the change of subject readily. ‘I thought it very competent. Not a one-off, either. She knows how to spin a web with words.’

  ‘Yes,’ Ben nodded. He used words as if he was waving flags. As he read Alice’s stories, he had realised that he would never become a writer: he was not going to compete on unequal terms with Alice.

  ‘You think she will be a success?’ Judith asked, not for the first time; she could not hear Austin’s praise of Alice too often.

  ‘I think she will have a following, not large, but faithful.’

  Judith looked away, thinking of Stanley and how proud he would have been, telling all his friends, pretending to talk objectively and getting far more angry than anyone else over every adverse criticism. For a moment, she thought, what am I doing sitting here?

  Austin was saying, ‘I think we might have a liqueur with our ground acorns, or whatever passes for coffee – to celebrate all this literary activity.’

  Judith said curtly, ‘Not for me, I can’t take all this drink.’

  Austin looked at her in surprise. Now, what have I done? he wondered. Is it because I have said that Alice is in love, which she undoubtedly is; or is it that I have not been fulsome enough in praise of her book? He had little idea of the extent to which Judith’s way of life had changed since she married him, and could not conceive that almost everything she did, except the gardening, required some adjustment on her part.

  While Austin was dealing with the bill, Judith said abruptly to Ben, ‘You have always got on rather well with Alice. Couldn’t you help her now? See a bit more of her? You could probably help her to sort herself out better than I could, being the same generation.’

  ‘I do see her.’

  ‘Casually, yes. But if you made a bit of an effort? I suppose that’s asking rather a lot . . .’

  They parted outside the restaurant. Austin said to Judith as they walked away, ‘What did you say to Ben to make him look so thunderous?’

  Ben had a burning pain in his chest which continued well into the afternoon; it was only later in the day, when the pain still had not eased, that he was prepared to admit that it might have another source than indigestion.

  The opportunity to make enquiries about Alice presented itself sooner than he had expected.

  The following day Guy was working late when one of the partners came to see him. He was a large, Teutonic young man whose blue eyes had the surprised glare of the thwarted child. As he put a folder down on Guy’s desk he looked as if he might be about to launch into one of Siegfried’s more petulant outbursts. Guy read the name on the folder – Lady Browne. The man said, ‘You shouldn’t be spending so much time on this old duck.’

  Guy’s eyes were cold and angry; his mouth set obstinately. ‘Her affairs are in a muddle. And she has been with this firm a long time and depends on us for help.’

  ‘Eggsactly!’ The eyes popped open even wider. ‘That, old man, is just what I am getting at. She has indeed been with us a very long time, from the Crimean War onwards, I would think!’ He found this very funny and brayed amusment. Guy looked pained. ‘You may be interested to see this breakdown of the time spent on her and the amount of money which it has brought in. I’ve done a similar exercise on two or three of your other clients.’ He laid a double-width sheet covered with figures on top of the file.

  ‘She can’t afford to pay much.’

  ‘And we can’t afford clients who can’t afford to pay for our services.’

  Guy looked at him uncomprehendingly and he gave a crowing laugh which ended in a little snort of contempt. He seemed to have quite a repertoire of farmyard noises. ‘What I am saying is that you will have to advise her to find another accountant. Perhaps you might say that she doesn’t need our sort of specialist service – that there must be someone locally who would be much better suited to her needs.’ He yawned and scratched his midriff, already bored with the subject. ‘You will know how to put it. You are so good with these people.’

  ‘I couldn’t do that!’ Guy was appalled.

  ‘I’m afraid you will have to – and that goes for the others.’ He was offhand rather than authoritative – Guy did not merit a show of strength. ‘See to it, will you, old man.’ He strolled out of the room and could be heard in the corridor joking rather coarsely with one of the cleaners.

  Guy sat gazing in front of him for some time. Then he pulled a sheet of paper towards him and began
to compose a long memorandum explaining why it would be wrong to take the action proposed by the partners. He was not happy with the result, and when he got home he telephoned Ben to ask him to meet him for a drink the next day.

  They met in the evening at The Two Chairmen in Westminster.

  ‘I don’t like to trouble you with this.’ His sensitive skin was flushed and his eyes sought the spaces in the crowded bar. ‘But you are trained in this sort of thing . . . I thought you might care to take a look at what I’ve written.’ He gave a nervous laugh. ‘Pick holes in it . . . and that kind of thing.’

  Ben studied the memorandum with misgivings.

  Guy said anxiously, ‘Is it any good? I mean, please suggest any alterations . . .’

  ‘It’s money they are worried about, I take it?’

  ‘All the time.’

  ‘Then however good this is, you won’t shift them, will you? You haven’t even mentioned the financial aspect.’

  ‘But I’ve explained about the circumstances of the clients involved . . .’

  ‘Who are poor. Which the partners already know and don’t like.’ Ben tapped the memorandum. ‘These arguments won’t hold any water with them. If they saw a blinding light on the Damascus road they would think it was warning them of a bad investment!’

  At a near-by table an architect was airing his grievances. ‘All they cared about was the cost of the service road! The whole bloody building has got to be squashed up in a corner of the site so that they can save money on the service road.’

  Ben said, ‘You see? It’s the world we live in.’

  ‘I’m not worried about aesthetic considerations!’ Guy would have had no qualms about squashing a building up in the corner of a site. ‘It’s people I deal with, not bricks and mortar.’

  ‘Wouldn’t the old lady be better off with a firm that is a little less sharp?’

  ‘What firm?’ Guy asked. ‘In the past most accountants have carried a few lame ducks, but it doesn’t mean they are prepared to take the other firms’ cast-offs.’ He folded the papers and put them away in his briefcase. ‘I suppose I could do it privately. That’s the answer. Louise won’t like me bringing more work home, though.’

  ‘Why don’t you get out?’

  ‘How?’ Guy smiled faintly. ‘It’s a very thrusting profession now, and I’m not a thrusting person.’ He said this, Ben noted, with a certain satisfaction. No doubt his colleagues had some grounds for finding him difficult to work with. Even so . . . ‘They can’t all be sods. Start looking. What about a country town?’

  Guy brightened, seeing an immediate picture of homely old buildings clustered round a sleepy market square. ‘Now, that is worth considering.’

  ‘And how is Alice?’ Ben asked.

  ‘Alice?’ Guy thought about Alice, who was the least of his problems. ‘I don’t really know. She’s out rather a lot.’

  ‘I saw her mother the other day. She said Alice was getting thin.’

  ‘She’s not eating potatoes,’ Guy recalled. ‘She and Louise had a row about it on Sunday.’ He took a long draught of beer. ‘Shaftesbury, now. I’ve always thought that was an attractive little town. What’s the name of that hill – Golden something ?’

  ‘I’m going down to Herefordshire again in the autumn. I thought I’d have another crack at Offa’s Dyke. She might like to come. It would be a change of scene. We might make up a party?’

  ‘Yes,’ Guy said. ‘And then, there’s Ludlow . . .’ His face had become drawn. ‘I really must do something – time goes by so quickly . . .’

  After he had left Ben he walked home through the parks, looking at the old houses lining the busy roads. They had an air of having preserved within their walls the spaciousness and peace of another age. He thought, ‘I mustn’t let life just slip away like this.’ The palms of his hands were sweating. He did not want to become one of those elderly men one saw sitting on park benches, or in club rooms, with that puzzled look on their faces as though wondering where it had all gone wrong. One saw films, read books, heard older people talk about men who lived contented lives, passing their days quietly, respected in their community, doing a reasonable job, a certain amount of good. It must be possible still, somewhere, mustn’t it?

  At the weekend, Alice and Louise sat in deck chairs in the garden. Louise was sunbathing. ‘I must get rid of these strap marks, or I can’t wear that dress tonight,’ she said. Alice turned a page. Louise said, ‘What are you reading so intently?’

  ‘Asmodée.’

  ‘That’s yesterday’s news!’ Louise laughed. ‘We are going to do Tennessee Williams’s Summer and Smoke in the autumn. It’s a beautiful play. Not nearly so hysterical as some of his stuff. I can’t understand why it isn’t done more often. Perhaps because people are so impatient. They can’t get any pleasure from long, slow days, or long, slow plays.’ She rocked her deckchair gently, looking lazily up at the sky, confident of pleasure.

  ‘What do you think it means when Emmy and Harry are out in the garden and Marcelle says to Blaise “I hate this night which has closed in on them. This betrothal night which they will remember even after their love is dead . . .”?’

  ‘She is jealous of her daughter, of course.’

  ‘Yes, but it isn’t jealousy which makes her say that their love will die – that is something she seems to take for granted, as though it’s a rule of life.’

  ‘The early rapture certainly dies.’ Louise looked at Guy who was spraying the roses with a soapy concoction of his own devising. ‘I am sure he should be doing that in the evening, not now while the sun is so hot.’

  ‘Why does it have to be at night? “I hate this night which has closed in on them.” And then one talks of a dark night of the soul. Always darkness where passion is concerned. I remember Miss Lindsay at school saying that Romeo and Juliet end up in the tomb, as do Aida and Radames . . .’

  ‘She would, she had a warped mind.’

  ‘But it’s true! Look at Cleopatra, and Othello, and . . .’

  Louise called to Guy, ‘There are two ladies here who need your ministrations much more than those roses.’

  Guy put down the watering can and went into the kitchen where they could hear him filling a kettle. Louise closed her eyes contentedly. ‘A nice cup of tea is just what I need. Much better than holding an asp to one’s bosom.’

  Alice closed the book. Louise said, ‘Don’t take it so hard; whoever it is, he can’t be worth it.’

  Tears came into Alice’s eyes. Louise said, ‘I’m sure I was never so solemn about my love affairs.’ For her, one golden day would always wipe out the memory of a month of storms.

  Guy came and put out a deck chair for himself; then he fetched a small table, placing it carefully on a smooth patch of grass. He did all this with meticulous attention to detail. Then he came over to Louise and inspected her back. ‘There is still the faintest of strap marks.’ He ran his fingers lightly over her back.

  Perhaps his hands were cold. Louise gave a little shiver. Alice, turning to look at her, saw that her head was tilted back, her eyes half-closed. Her face had that unfocused, almost imbecile appearance which pleasure can present to a person coming cold upon a love scene. As Guy walked unconcernedly away, Louise whispered, ‘My artful little monkey!’

  She is thinking of Ivor! Alice experienced a wrench of pain so bitter it startled her into saying, ‘Daphne introduced me to someone who knew you – Ivor Ritchie.’

  Louise, who might have given the guilty start Alice anticipated had Jacov been mentioned at this moment, replied at once, ‘The love of my life! How did he seem?’

  ‘What do you mean, the love of your life?’ Alice asked, disconcerted by Louise’s manner.

  Louise spoke more soberly. ‘There was a time when I thought I would never get over giving him up.’

  ‘You gave him up?’

  ‘Of course.’ Louise looked coldly at Alice, offended that anyone might imagine that a man would give her up. ‘And there’s no need to loo
k so old-fashioned. We weren’t lovers . . . at least, not in the way you are thinking.’

  ‘Is there another way?’ There was certainly another way for her, but she had not imagined it to be so for Louise.

  ‘There must be. I have never felt like that about any other man.’

  ‘Then, why, how . . .’ Alice asked, thinking of the force that was in Ivor and the strength that must have been required to withstand it.

  ‘I wouldn’t be sitting here if I had become his mistress. There would have been no going back.’ Louise looked at Guy who had come out of the kitchen carrying a tea tray as though it contained sacred vessels. He had donned an old straw hat to protect his sensitive skin from the sun. ‘He will have used the best china, and covered that tray with a lace cloth. He is so much more gracious than I shall ever be! How could I have left him?’ She spoke with a wry tenderness so different from that moment earlier when Guy had rubbed his fingers across her back that Alice was more puzzled than ever.

  ‘You must be very much in love with Guy,’ she said doubtfully.

  ‘He needs me. He needs me much more than Ivor needed me.’

  Alice, remembering Ivor’s white face and the rage which had consumed him at the memory of Louise, thought that perhaps Ivor had needed Louise more than she realised.

  ‘Don’t mention his name in front of Guy,’ Louise said, watching Guy setting the china on the table. She asked no questions about Alice’s meeting with Ivor. It would never have occurred to her that Ivor would betray anything other than a casual interest in Alice.

  Alice, aware of this, said snappishly, ‘Oh, I shall rush up to him the minute he has finished laying the table and say, “Did you know that Louise had an affair with a man called Ivor Ritchie during the war?” ’