Gently with Love

by Alan Hunter

  ‘You’re feeling sore. I’m not surprised.’

  ‘I feel I could punch a hole in a wall.’

  ‘I’ve got a wall that needs a hole in it.’

  He was silent. Then: ‘All right.’

  I called in Mrs Jarvis and requested her savoury omelettes for supper. About half an hour later Earle slammed his Pontiac against the kerb outside. The Pontiac was no longer spruce and its owner was sporting a modest black eye. His step had lost a little of the bounce that once had been so characteristic. He held out his hand.

  ‘Hiya, fella.’

  I led him to the study where drinks were waiting. Earle took his glass and prowled for a moment, eyeing the books, the furniture, the pictures. Then he turned and gave me a look. There was desperation in his voice.

  ‘Where is she, George?’

  I shook my head. ‘I don’t know where she is, Earle.’

  ‘That’s what they both say, Alex and Verna. But someone has to know.’

  ‘You think that they do?’

  ‘I’m darned sure of it. She certainly would have got in touch with one of them. She wouldn’t let Verna worry. But me, I don’t rate a picture postcard.’ His eye was keen. ‘Have you been seeing them?’

  ‘Not since my stay at Blockford.’

  He paused before nodding. ‘I guess not. I just feel it’s all happening behind my back.’

  He pulled up an old Spanish chair which I use mostly to stack magazines on and sank on its comfortless leather seat with a motion that was tired and heavy. Those three months had certainly changed him. The gaiety that had been his charm was gone. Instead he had a brooding, resentful expression that made his face look lumpier, plainer. He had never been handsome; now the boyishness had left him; he seemed to have lost his youth at a stroke. And there was a pallor in the slightly fleshy cheeks, an unhealthy tone: I suspected drink.

  ‘You are bound to feel down a bit at the moment. Being done in court is never much fun.’

  ‘It’s no fun at all. It’s like being stripped. I just want to quit this stuffed-shirt country.’

  ‘Who was the beak?’

  ‘Name of Hoskins.’

  ‘I know him. You could have done worse.’

  Earle said nothing. He was sitting elbows on knees, rolling his untouched glass between his hands.

  ‘Was it worth fifty quid?’

  ‘Huh.’

  ‘I take it you got the better of the scrap.’

  ‘I knocked him cold. It was worth the dough. But I should have beaten him to a bloody pulp.’

  ‘Then you’d have been inside.’

  ‘So what. I’m not doing so good out here. I’ve been figuring it out. For under ten years I could have fixed that louse for keeps.’

  ‘You’ve been drinking,’ I said. ‘Or you wouldn’t talk like that to a copper. You had better tell me what’s going on. It could save you another dip in your pocket.’

  Earle rolled the glass a little more. ‘That snake has been seeing Anne. I think he knows where she is. I had a go at beating it out of him.’

  ‘When did he come into it?’

  ‘When we had the row.’

  ‘You mean it was really about him?’

  Earle shook his head. ‘It was the way you were told. But when I moved out, he moved in.’

  Then he told me about Fortuny. Fortuny was a man with a reputation. He was a minor actor but he was also a freelance scriptwriter and a producer. He was handsome; from Earle’s description I could envisage a tall, athletic man, with crisp black hair, blue, smiling eyes and the features of a male fashion model. He was not greatly successful at his occupations but he had a charm that helped him along, and he was the particular friend of a Programme Controller whom Earle described as eating out of his hand. He was thirty-five and unmarried: his reputation was with the ladies. Though they were not forward to marry him he seemed to be the type of lover that every woman needed, once, before she died. He had been in trouble about women. Earle was not the first to endanger Fortuny’s classic profile, but it appeared that Fortuny could handle himself and it was usually the other man who came off worst. One or two cases had come to court and there had been other disgruntled fine-payers; while, eighteen months earlier, an incident had occurred that had led to a criminal action. Earle’s expression was angry as he spoke of it.

  ‘Fortuny had a part in a TV play. It was called The Lost Harvest, it was about herring fishing, and they were shooting on location at Lowestoft. They’d hired a trawler. The trawler crew were in the film along with the cast. After the day’s shooting the crew were invited along to the hotel where the unit was staying. One of the deckhands brought his girlfriend – he was swanking a bit, you can bet – and Fortuny made a play for her, and the youngster pulled a knife. They got them apart. Nobody was hurt. It probably wouldn’t have happened except for the booze. But Fortuny called in the cops and the kid got six months in Norwich jail.’ Earle’s eyes were glinting. ‘What do you think of that?’

  I shrugged. ‘I’ve met his type before. I think they are probably mildly psychotic. The sad part starts when they begin to grow old.’

  ‘Psychotic my foot. A louse is a louse.’

  ‘What was the trick he played on Alex?’

  ‘Oh that. He swiped a programme. Anything goes with Fortuny.’

  But it was serious enough, I learned: at least it was in Alex’s eyes. It had happened during the previous summer when Alex and Fortuny were still friendly. Fortuny came down to spend a weekend. Alex was working on an idea. It was a dramatized history of the great Victorian industrialists, to run in a serial of twenty parts. Alex was enthusiastic. He discussed it with Fortuny, who had experience in planning serials. He showed Fortuny a synopsis of the whole and detailed treatment of two of the instalments. Then Alex submitted it to the Programme Controller, the same who was friendly with Fortuny. It was turned down. A month later, an identical series was accepted from Fortuny. Alex complained; it did him no good; the Controller would listen to no criticism of Fortuny. What was worse, Alex found himself passed over when other projects were being allocated. Needless to say there had been scenes with Fortuny, though they had not finished up in brawls, and it was easy to see why Alex reacted so strongly when Fortuny’s name was mentioned. Fortuny had not merely played him a dirty trick; he was jeopardizing Alex’s career.

  I listened to all this with growing scepticism. ‘But Anne would never have taken up with Fortuny.’

  ‘Look, fella, when we had that bust-up Anne was pretty bitter with me.’

  ‘But what proof have you?’

  ‘Lots of proof. How do you think I’ve been spending my time? I’ve been asking questions, just like you would, and grilling everyone who knew her. She was seen with him, seen in his car, seen coming out of his flat. That Lothario caught her on the rebound. Somehow he managed to turn her head.’

  ‘If he did it was only temporarily.’

  ‘She jilted me, didn’t she?’

  ‘And you suspect she is with him now?’

  ‘That’s why I busted into his flat. But she wasn’t around when I was there.’

  I shook my head. ‘You acted like an idiot. You can’t just go busting into people’s flats.’

  ‘You can if you’re prepared to take the consequences.’

  ‘I begin to think that Hoskins let you down lightly.’

  We went in to our meal, where I had the satisfaction of seeing him tackle his omelette with appetite. No doubt our talk was doing him good and I surmised that he had nobody else in whom he could confide. But I couldn’t accept his notion about Anne being with Fortuny. She had too much character to become attached to such a man. I could imagine her solacing her outraged feelings with him but she would have dropped him without a pang when she and Earle were reconciled. Fortuny might be the reason why she resigned; she would be wanting to withdraw from contact with him. But of himself he could not be the reason for her disappearance, and his flat would be the last place where I would have looked for
her. Alas there was another, more heart-rending, possibility. I wondered that it hadn’t occurred to Earle. Apparently it hadn’t, and I felt that this was no time to increase his anguish by suggesting it. At least, as he ate steadily through the omelette, he was beginning to see some sense about Fortuny.

  ‘You know, I may be a mug to think she ran off with him. She wouldn’t let that louse take her in so easily. Fortuny has a reputation that stinks. She couldn’t ever have kidded herself he would marry her.’

  ‘I’m certain she didn’t go to him.’

  ‘So it comes back to me. There was something about me that she wasn’t sure of. Perhaps that gigolo soured her on men. I should have taken it out of his hide.’

  ‘I think you’d better get him out of your mind.’

  Earle ate in silence for a few moments. ‘I guess I’ve come to a dead end,’ he said at last. ‘Busting Fortuny was just making the motions.’

  ‘She loved you, Earle. I’ll swear to that.’

  He gave me a twisted look. ‘Past tense is right. And there’s not a thing I can do about it. She’s gone, and I’m not to know where.’

  ‘I believe she’ll get in touch with you when she’s ready.’

  ‘But how long is that going to be, fella? Doesn’t she know I’m eating away inside like there’s a hole there that can’t be filled?’

  ‘Just trust her.’

  ‘It’s like everything had stopped. It stopped that evening back in Blockford. I don’t want to do anything, don’t want to be anything. It’s all standing still: until I find her.’

  I was silenced. I thought that perhaps I could put him in the way of finding her, but if what I suspected was true I felt it was best that Anne should play it her own way. She had acted hastily but she had had time to consider and I thought she could be relied upon to judge wisely. It was hard on Earle, but it might be harder on Anne if I sought to interfere. I refilled his glass; he drank automatically.

  ‘Why not take a trip?’ I suggested.

  ‘You mean get away from it all, that jazz?’

  ‘The remedy has been known to work.’

  He drank, then shook his head. ‘It wouldn’t work in my case. Suppose she rang me when I was away. I wouldn’t be able to live long enough to get back.’

  ‘She’ll find a way to reach you when she wants to, and meanwhile you’re doing no good here. You were going to visit your father in the fall. He’s probably looking forward to it. I should go.’

  Earle hesitated. ‘That’s good advice. I wish I had the guts to take it.’

  ‘Then go.’

  He gave a heavy sigh. ‘But that was to have been a double ticket.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  HE MADE THE trip: I talked him into it. It seemed the kindest thing that I could do. If my theory was correct I felt convinced that Anne would not try to contact him just then. Also I was by no means persuaded that Earle’s vendetta with Fortuny had ended in the Bow Street Magistrates’ Court; a cooling-down period in Hamilton, Ontario had a great deal to recommend it.

  After he had gone that evening I rang Verna.

  ‘Verna, I’ve just been talking to Earle.’

  ‘What about Earle?’

  I took it that Verna didn’t see the London evening papers.

  ‘He’s been in trouble with Nigel Fortuny. He burst into Fortuny’s flat and assaulted him. The case was in court this morning and Earle was fined fifty pounds.’

  A few moments passed while Verna digested this. ‘George, I haven’t much time for Earle these days. He’s behaving like a child. He was very rude to me. He seems to hold us responsible for Anne’s jilting him.’

  ‘He had an idea that she was with Fortuny.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous and he knows it. I don’t know why everyone is so against Nigel. I thought he was charming when he was down here.’

  ‘You think perhaps he’s being misrepresented.’

  ‘I can only speak as I find. I know that Alex has taken against him, but that’s no reason why I should too. And as for Earle’s conduct, it’s disgraceful. I don’t think a fifty-pound fine is adequate. I’m beginning to see now why Anne ran out on him. His behaviour isn’t civilized.’

  ‘He wanted to know where Anne was.’

  ‘My God, you didn’t tell him, did you?’

  So Verna knew.

  ‘I decided it best to leave matters where they stood.’

  Verna was silent. She was wondering too late if I really did know, and if so, how. But if she was conscious of having given herself away she persuaded herself that probably I hadn’t noticed.

  ‘When she gets in touch I shall take great care that Earle is the last person to be told. That boy isn’t stable. I should have thought he’d proved that by what he did to poor Nigel.’

  ‘He would certainly have reason to be angry.’

  ‘He would go through the roof.’

  ‘Fortunately, he doesn’t seem to suspect the truth.’

  Verna lapsed into another fertile silence.

  ‘Of course, he may work out where she went,’ I prodded. ‘It only calls for a little common sense. I don’t suppose she had much money. She needed somewhere to stay for – how long? A year?’

  Verna gasped. ‘You don’t think he’ll guess?’

  ‘Earle isn’t exactly a born detective. But it wouldn’t surprise me if one of these days he began to think in terms of Scotland.’

  ‘He doesn’t know the address!’

  ‘That may put him off. Though a determined investigator could find it.’

  ‘But it’s utterly remote – the back of beyond.’

  ‘If it is on the phone it is on record.’

  I heard sounds at the other end suggestive of Verna’s taking a fresh middle. I could picture her sitting on the phone seat in the study at Blockford, her eyes determined and her mouth tight.

  ‘Now look here, George. This could be serious. I think you’d better have another talk with Earle. You’ve got to convince him that it’s all over and that Anne is never, never going to marry him. It’s unfortunate, but it’s irrevocable. It’s just no use his waiting around. After all, he’s young, he can soon get over it, and there are plenty more fish in the sea.’

  ‘Suppose he doesn’t listen to me.’

  ‘He’s got to listen to you. Otherwise he’ll be causing a great deal of unhappiness. If he really does love Anne he’ll remember that and do the right thing. But you must convince him that now she’ll never marry him and that it would be best for him to go back to Canada. That would be ideal for both of them, and it’s what he always wanted to do.

  ‘It would tidy things up.’

  ‘There’s no need to be cynical. You must see that it’s the only answer. While he hangs around here he’s going to make trouble and perhaps have another go at poor Nigel.’

  There she had a point.

  ‘Well, I have talked to him,’ I conceded. ‘And I think I’ve persuaded him to go home for a break. I dare say he will come back seeing things clearer. He’s feeling very down in the mouth just now.’

  ‘Of course I’m sorry for Earle and all that.’

  ‘The bottom did rather drop out of his world.’

  ‘All the same, he has taken it badly, and it will be a relief when he goes home for good.’

  I hung up and dropped into an easy chair and lit my pipe and cogitated. I felt that my theory was proved but it didn’t make me happy. I thought of Anne and of that traumatic moment when she had stepped out of the doctor’s surgery. I could hear the words that she had just heard and that now were pounding in her brain. She had done it. Her life was in ruins. There wasn’t any way out. Abortion? Passing it off? They weren’t the ways of Anne Mackenzie. And nobody she could tell. Not Verna or Alex. Not me. She had had to face it alone. There was nothing left for her except to run. But where could she go? With very little money and so much need for support and protection? If only Colin had been alive, the one person who would always have taken her part! Alas, she could no
longer go to him, but there remained the people who had loved him, who were most like him, most like her: who might receive her just because she was Colin’s. So she had written that bitter letter though the tears were almost blinding her, had somehow kept up her front with Verna, and in the morning slipped away. Beside her grief Earle’s seemed half-selfish: all the consolation was his: all the alternatives were open to him. Anne just had a broken heart.

  I remained some while sitting and smoking and gazing at the watercolour that had never been given. Then I went to my desk and switched on the light. I opened a pad and made notes.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  THE NEXT DAY was Wednesday. In the evening I did something that I confess to doing very rarely: I switched on the television and sat down to watch the Wednesday Play.

  There is an anaemia about television drama that I am told is intrinsic. I once discussed the point with a playwright who happens also to be a dramatic critic. He averred that the weakness lay in the medium, which he described as essentially a branch of journalism; when you wrote a script for TV you were pouring your talent into a bottomless well. A successful theatre play lives. It is a creative act of substance. It is printed and remembered and revived and reassessed. But play scripts written for television vanish into nothingness the moment they are performed, and those who write them are inhibited by awareness of this expendability. The only TV drama worth watching, my friend concluded, was that written originally for other media, or at least based on literary work that could provide an independent inspiration.

  My Wednesday Play fell into neither category. It was called The Glass Interval. It was about a West Indian youth with a bored expression and a girl who spoke with a Brummie accent. They met on a see-saw in a children’s playground. They seemed to have very little to say to each other. They gazed at each other unsmilingly and when they did speak seemed to be sharing one set of lines between them. I suppose this conveyed their sense of togetherness. They left the see-saw when a policeman approached. They wandered with a slow, balletic gait through mean streets and a demolition site, and sat earnestly regarding each other over cups of tea in a workmen’s cafe. Then they strolled into a studio where an artist was painting. The artist was strangely and immediately struck by them. He was effusive. He could perceive between them, as I could not, a Glass Interval. He offered them fruit and wine and begged to be allowed to paint them, then and there. They gazed at each other. They were plainly offended. They strolled out of the studio. I switched off.