Harry inclined his head gravely. In the event only Linda’s mother had arrived; the father had gone down with an attack of shingles. The inquest had gone as smoothly as Harry could have wished: his deposition had been considered along with evidence from the young doctor, and the findings had never been in doubt for a moment: Linda had taken her own life when the balance of her mind had been disturbed. What she had written before her death was not made public; the coroner had merely adduced it as supporting these findings. So now Harry was listening to this woman going on about Linda, while Sergeant Waring sat opposite and looked pinkly commiserating.
‘Linda was a Christian,’ Harry said. ‘She was a good girl. I know. Some girls these days…well, Linda was never like that. She never messed about or anything. You’ve got to realise. She wouldn’t tolerate any funny business, and no more would I. So she turned this young lad down, and then she blamed herself for his death. Now I don’t think she was to blame. I expect the truth is she was too good, when you come to think of it.’
‘An impressionable age,’ Sergeant Waring said.
Linda’s mother said, ‘Yes, I know, but I never would have thought my girl would take her own life.’
Harry said, ‘Rest assured she’ll be forgiven. Why, I could blame myself for not keeping a sharper eye out, but there just wasn’t anything to see. If I were to blame myself, it’d be a kind of luxury, if you know what I mean: trying to make myself feel guilty.’
‘I feel guilty,’ the woman said sadly. ‘I shouldn’t have let her leave home.’
‘No,’ the sergeant said. ‘Young people have to make their own way in the world. Sometimes it just doesn’t work out.’
Gently, tranquilly rolling the ball bearing, Harry said gently, ‘Just remember: she’ll be forgiven.’
*
It was a cold, wet evening a few weeks later. Harry let himself in, shook his raincoat in the lobby, and hung it on its peg. He went into the kitchen and made up the fire, then cooked half a packet of spaghetti, drained off the liquid and emptied the stuff on a plate, rolling a spoonful of Bovril round in it and then grating cheese over it. He ate messily, sucking in strands of spaghetti and licking the grated cheese from around his lips, chewing noisily.
He missed the LYF. If the group had still been in being, they would have been making plans for the next spring, or even for the Christmas holidays. First Peter had gone, then Simon, and then Linda. Only Ann and Cheryl were left — and himself, of course. He hadn’t seen the two girls for weeks… Funny, the way that chap Ray had just appeared in their lives, then gone out of them with no more than a wave. Still, life was like that. Untidy.
Harry finished the spaghetti, and made tea, sitting with it in a snug little armchair by the kitchen fire, which was beginning to flare up, flames leaping and sparks crackling. He stared into the fire for a while, his face clouded. It was all such a let down. The rector hadn’t asked him to be a sidesman again; just that one time. Everything had gone flat and boring lately: nothing to do but work, and then come home and listen to the radio or read, or go out to the local for a pint of what seemed to him to be increasingly bodiless and insipid beer. The opportunity of exercising his power had not come along again, and he supposed this was the source of his general discontentment. When he thought it all through, he had to admit that he had grown out of the LYF, and the idea of trying to start another group like it…well, the truth was that it didn’t appeal to him at all any more. A phase, that’s what it had been; just a phase. Then it had finished. He threw the slops from his teacup into the fire, where they dissolved at once with a fierce hiss and a small cloud of steam. Finished, like that. It was almost enough to drive him into buying a television set.
The thing was, people were a bit stand-offish with him lately. They had been very sympathetic at first; no doubt about that. But then, after the expressions of sympathy, nobody seemed to want to have much to do with him any more. That sidesman business, for instance. Old Wilshaw had recovered from his ’flu, but he’d been a wreck before then, and if the rector’d had anything about him, he would have made Harry a permanent replacement. But no. There was old Wilshaw, back again, doddering around the aisles like the skeleton at the feast. Harry could have done the job ten times better. The trouble was, people thought he was a Jonah after what had happened to Simon and Linda.
He got up and put another kettle on to boil, and was going back to his chair when he heard a knock at the front door.
‘Who can this be?’ he said. ‘A deputation with the Mayor in front, giving me the keys and the freedom of the borough?’
It was Cheryl. Harry’s face brightened as he saw her standing at the door under a small green umbrella.
‘Well, this is a surprise,’ Harry said, smiling broadly. ‘Come in, love: I’ve got the kettle on already. Second sight, that’s what I’ve got!’
He showed her into the kitchen, taking her umbrella and raincoat. He put the umbrella in the corner of the hearth, and hung the raincoat on the fireguard to dry, then sat Cheryl in the armchair and drew up a kitchen chair for himself.
‘Soon have a cup of tea for you,’ he said. ‘Now tell me all the news.’
Cheryl clasped her hands in her lap, her blonde hair a little streaked in places from the rain. She seemed hesitant and uncertain where to begin.
Harry said, ‘Seen Ann lately?’
‘Ann’s gone.’
‘Gone? Where’s she gone?’
Cheryl said, ‘She’s gone to live with an aunt at Fleetwood. Got a job in an office up there. She just wanted to get away after what happened. She said she couldn’t settle down here any more.’
‘Well, what do you know?’ Harry said. ‘She’s gone, just like that, and she never even came to say goodbye.’ He topped up the teapot with boiling water, then poured tea for Cheryl, and another cup for himself.
‘All I ever seem to do lately,’ he said. ‘Pouring tea.’
Cheryl said, ‘What Ann’s really doing…she’s having an abortion, Harry. That’s really why she went up to this aunt at Fleetwood. And she couldn’t stand it here either. She was telling the truth about that.’
‘You mean she was going to have a baby?’
‘Yes,’ said Cheryl. ‘Peter’s. I’d have just gone ahead and had it if I’d been her. Well, I am in a way. I’m pregnant as well, Harry.’
Harry put down cup and saucer on the kitchen table, shakily.
‘You’re pregnant as well? You can’t be?’
‘Yes, I can,’ Cheryl said quietly. ‘I missed twice, and then I took one of those tests. I’m pregnant, all right.’
Harry said, ‘You poor thing. That filthy devil they called Lumpy. Mind you, you can’t be expected to have the baby.’
‘Why not?’
Horrified, Harry said, ‘Well, it stands to reason. What if it’s like him? You’ll have to do what Ann’s doing. Get rid of it.’
‘No,’ Cheryl said. ‘I’m not getting rid of it. I don’t think it’s that Lumpy’s baby. If it turns out to be, and I should think anyone could tell, then I’ll have it adopted. But I don’t believe it is.’
‘What are you trying to tell me?’ Harry said.
‘I think the baby is Ray’s, Harry.’
‘Oh, no. You don’t mean that you and Ray…?’
Cheryl nodded and said, ‘You remember. You went back up with your towrope. Then, when you’d gone, Ray and I went for a walk, and that’s when it happened.’
Harry said angrily, ‘That’s why he just shot off as fast as ever he could! He did that bit of driving for us, I grant you that, and then he hopped it quick.’
‘I don’t blame him,’ Cheryl said. ‘I did at first, but not now. He made things better for me at the time, and I didn’t realise it.’
‘Not even knowing who the father is,’ Harry said in disgust. ‘That’s what gets me. How can you be so calm about it?’
Cheryl said, ‘We’ll have plenty of time to talk it all over after we’re married, Harry.’
; She had turned away from the fire to face him, her blue eyes wide and clear, a small smile lighting her face; all her earlier hesitancy had vanished.
‘Married?’ Harry said vacantly. ‘Married? Us?’
‘It’s the obvious thing to do,’ Cheryl told him. ‘I’m no great catch, and I’d have a job finding anybody else to marry me. But you’ve got this little house, and a steady job, and money in the bank. It’ll do fine.’
Harry recovered a degree of self-possession and said, ‘Fine? It may do you fine, but not me. First you walk in here and tell me you’re having a baby, and it might be one feller or it might be the other; and then you say you’re going to marry me. Well, there’s two points of view there, my girl, and I don’t want to marry you. You seem to think it’s going to be great if the baby turns out to be Ray’s. I don’t want his baby any more than I want that flaming Lumpy’s in the house, and I’m not surrounded by choirs of angels singing when I think of marrying you even without any kids in the offing. I’m all right as I am, thanks very much.’
Cheryl smiled more sweetly and said, ‘Yes, but I’m not.’
‘Look,’ Harry said earnestly. ‘Why not get rid of it? If Ann can, so can you. That’s the obvious thing, not coming along here with some mad idea of marrying me.’
‘I’m not going to get rid of it,’ Cheryl said. ‘I’ve always wanted a baby.’
Harry was nonplussed by this antenatal stubbornness.
‘Well, I’m not going to marry you,’ he said. ‘I must admit I wouldn’t have minded before all that happened, but not now. It turned me off, Cherry. Have a heart. Go away and leave me alone.’
Cheryl said, ‘You’ll marry me or I’ll tell everybody what went on up there. I’ve nothing to lose. All I’ll say is what that Lumpy did. Everyone will be sorry for me. But you think where you’ll stand when it all comes out.’
Harry thought; and the more he thought, the less he liked the situation. Where was his power now?
He said, ‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’
Cheryl nodded without speaking, and Harry picked up her raincoat.
‘I want a drink,’ he said, as he helped her into the coat. ‘And I don’t mean tea.’
They walked in silence round to Harry’s local, and went into the lounge bar. Harry seated Cheryl, then went over and ordered drinks: a snowball for Cheryl, and a pint of bitter and a Scotch for himself. He was served by the landlord.
‘Courting, Mr Eckington?’ the landlord said, putting the drinks on a tray and sliding it over to Harry. ‘Must say I admire your taste.’
‘I’ve been courting her for a year or more,’ Harry said, flicking a glance over at Cheryl.
‘Well, now, I’d always put you down as a confirmed bachelor.’
Harry grunted noncommittally and paid for the drinks, then took the tray over to Cheryl and sat with her.
‘Cheers,’ he said.
‘Cheers.’
They drank; Harry left the whisky untouched for the moment, taking a big gulp of beer. He looked round the room. It was fairly early, and there were only four or five people drinking.
Harry said, ‘I’ve been thinking it over. If you really want to, we’ll get married.’
5
The wedding took place two weeks later, on Cheryl’s eighteenth birthday, at the local register office. Cheryl’s father was an atheist and threatened to cause all manner of unpleasantness if the couple dared to marry in church, so Harry gave way in favour of the civil ceremony; besides, he had been feeling lately that the rector had been unfair to him. Mr Wilshaw had been unwell again, but Harry had not been asked to take his place as sidesman, so it suited Harry in a way to marry at a register office and give the rector a slap in the eye. The wedding was a small and undistinguished occasion, with only Cheryl’s parents present. Her mother was tearful and disparaging at the same time, more especially since there was to be no honeymoon. Harry had already taken his holiday, and any further time off would have to come at Christmas, when he had a week due. He soothed Cheryl’s mother by promising to take the girl to Aviemore, and teach her to ski. He remembered wryly that he had promised to take all the LYF to Aviemore on the strength of Egan’s fifty pounds, but in the upshot he had omitted to take any money at all… He shook himself free of the memory.
The four of them left the register office and walked to a restaurant for lunch; it was a cold but sunny Saturday midday. The meal was paid for by Cheryl’s father, who insisted on a real blow-out, and made coarse jokes as they ate scampi, followed by steak, chips and peas, then trifle. With the steak Cheryl’s father ordered a bottle of wine: warm sauternes.
After the meal the couples parted company, and Harry took his bride to the cinema, which was showing a re-run of Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey. Neither had seen the film before. As the marvellous final sequence unfolded, the luminous embryonic child equated with the universe, microcosm with macrocosm, Harry pondered sourly on Cheryl’s baby, and saw on the screen merely some other cuckoo in the nest. Then Cheryl’s good hand stole over his own and clasped it; evidently she had been thinking of the baby too, but quite differently.
They sat in an awkward silence in Harry’s little sitting room later that evening. The room was heated by an electric fire, two bars glowing red. Harry thought, I’ll have to make a move soon. Wedding day. Put the other two bars on and then make love on the rug. Or wait for bed? The trouble is I just don’t want to. I’m going to buy a TV set next week.
He stood up and was moving to the fire when a knock sounded at the front door. With a sense of relief Harry went to answer the door, and found Sergeant Waring standing there holding a large bottle wrapped in brown paper.
Waring said, ‘I’ve brought a bottle for the happy couple.’
That’s nice,’ Harry said. ‘Come on in.’
‘No, no, I don’t want to disturb you,’ Waring said, handing over the bottle and winking. ‘Don’t want to break in on your wedding night.’
Desperately Harry said, ‘You’ve got to drink the bride’s health now you’re here, and we’ve got this bottle to do it with.’
‘All right, then. But only for a minute, mind.’
Harry showed Waring in, and introduced him to Cheryl, whom he recalled vaguely from the youth club days. He remarked on how she had grown, and how lucky Harry was to have found such a beautiful bride. And indeed, at this early stage of her pregnancy Cheryl’s body had scarcely thickened, though her breasts were fuller and heavier.
Harry unwrapped the bottle, and exclaimed with pleasure.
‘Champagne!’
Waring said, ‘It’s still nice and cold. I kept it in the fridge for an hour before bringing it over.’
Harry fetched glasses, removed the wire from the cork and popped it economically, spilling very little.
‘Well,’ said Sergeant Waring, raising his glass. ‘Here’s to a long and happy life, a new chapter beginning, and an end to all your troubles except for small ones.’
They clinked glasses and drank. Waring kissed Cheryl, and then they sat for a few minutes over the drinks.
‘Just a very quiet wedding,’ Harry said. ‘We didn’t want to have a big do, you know.’
He was rotating the ball bearing in the fingers of his right hand, casually.
‘Just my mum and dad,’ Cheryl said. ‘We’ve had our holidays, and Harry couldn’t take any more time off just yet.’
‘Ah, well, it’s sensible too,’ said Waring. ‘These days you need the money for other things than just splashing around. Now I’d better be going.’
‘Have another drink,’ Harry said.
‘No, no. That wouldn’t be right. I’m off duty, but still I brought that bottle for you two.’
Cheryl said, ‘It was a lovely thought.’
The sergeant smiled at her, then glanced at the ball bearing in Harry’s fingers.
‘You used to have three of those things,’ he said. ‘Still got ’em, have you?’
‘He lost a couple,’ Cheryl said befo
re Harry could put in a word.
‘Oh, well, these things happen,’ Waring said. ‘Now I really have to go. Goodbye, Mrs Eckington.’
Harry saw the sergeant out, and when he returned to the sitting room Cheryl was refilling their two glasses.
‘Mrs Eckington!’ she said. ‘It does seem funny. Now let’s drink all this lovely fizzy champers. What a nice man, bringing us this bottle!’
‘One of the best,’ Harry said. ‘Straight as a die.’
They drank some more champagne.
Cheryl said, ‘I saw Peter’s mother the other day. Poor old cow, she still thinks he’s going to turn up.’
‘Good for her,’ Harry said. ‘As long as she goes on thinking that, there’s no harm done.’
His wife sipped reflectively, then said, ‘Harry? Harry, you don’t hold it against me? I mean, you don’t think I blackmailed you into marrying me?’
‘Well, you did, didn’t you?’ Harry said. ‘No, I don’t hold it against you.’
They finished the bottle of champagne over the next hour. Cheryl felt happily drunk, drowsy and elated at the same time. Giving a small sigh, she swivelled round in her chair, then slid to her knees by Harry’s side.
‘Come on,’ she breathed. ‘Let’s go upstairs.’
The champagne had affected Harry also, and as he undressed Cheryl in the bedroom he believed that everything was going to be successful after all; but in the event he found himself quite incapable of performance. He rolled away from the girl, who had begun to cry quietly.
‘It’s no good,’ he said. ‘I keep on thinking of that kid in there, and it turns me off.’
Cheryl said, ‘It isn’t that at all. You’re just no use, are you, Harry? You collected us round you, people like me and Ann and Simon and Peter — and even Ray, while you could. We bolstered you up, and you exploited us, you and your LYF.’
‘I never exploited anybody,’ Harry said, stung. ‘The LYF was a fine thing while it lasted.’
Harry Doing Good Page 17