Coral Glynn

by Peter Cameron

“Don’t tell me you have worried about that,” said Clement. “That was solved ages ago, soon after you left. They found that it was a little boy, just as you said. It was an accident—they were playing some game in the woods. I hoped you might have read about it in the newspapers.”

  Coral said nothing.

  “Did you?” he asked.

  “No,” she said. “I did not.”

  “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I suppose I did the wrong thing, suggesting you go away…”

  “No,” she said.

  “I was frightened for you,” he said.

  “Yes,” she said. “I was frightened, too. It was right for me to leave there. And right for you to not answer my letters. It all happened, I think, as it ought.”

  “No,” said Clement. “No! It has all gone wrong. Oh, Coral! Robin kept your letters from me. I only found out about them recently. Dolly found them. I thought that you had not written to me.”

  “Well, whatever happened, I think we both saw right to give it up. How it happened does not really matter. Besides, it is all in the past. Everything has happened as it ought.”

  “How fatalistic you are, Coral. I wish that I could feel the same.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No,” said Clement. “I don’t. I don’t know what I feel, really, but I know that I don’t feel that everything has happened in the proper way. In fact, I feel that very little has happened as it ought, at least in my life. I do not blame the gods, however. The fault is all mine.”

  “It is no one’s fault. Robin’s, perhaps, but we cannot blame him.”

  “I can blame him. And I do.”

  “How is Robin? How is Dolly?”

  “They are separating—divorcing, perhaps; I’m not sure. Robin is going to Australia.”

  “Australia?”

  “Yes,” said Clement. “He wants to start a new life there, and Dolly, I think, will move here to London. I suppose she will start a new life, too.”

  “So many new lives,” said Coral.

  “It is absurd,” said Clement. “They are both absurd.”

  “Oh, no,” said Coral. “On the contrary. I think they are both very brave. And Mrs Prence? How is she?”

  “Ah,” said Clement. “A miracle has occurred in that quarter. You will not believe it.”

  “What?”

  “Mrs Prence has begun a new life, too. She has married. Or remarried, I suppose.”

  “To whom?”

  “To your old friend, Inspector Hoke. He came to the house several times after you left, while the enquiry was on-going. And somehow a romance—or friendship—was born. I know it sounds preposterous, but it is true.”

  “I don’t think it’s preposterous at all,” said Coral. “It makes very good sense to me.”

  “Does it? I found it all quite mystifying.”

  “Yes, but love is mystifying,” said Coral. “That is why it makes perfect sense.”

  Clement said nothing.

  “Poor Clement! Who looks after you now? Is there a new Mrs Prence?”

  “No,” said Clement. “There is, thank God, only one Mrs Prence. I am alone at Hart House now. A girl comes daily and cleans a bit and cooks something inedible for me. She is paid twice as much as Mrs Prence and does half the work, if that.”

  “Well, I am glad to know that Mrs Prence is happy. At least someone is.”

  Clement turned to her. “Are you?” he asked.

  “Happy? Yes, I am, sometimes. Mostly, I suppose. There is no reason for me not to be happy.”

  Clement did not reply for a moment but then said, “Dolly told me something else as well.”

  “What was that?” asked Coral.

  “She told me—she said that you had told her—that you were going to have a child.”

  “Yes,” said Coral. “I did tell her that.”

  “And was it true?”

  “Yes,” said Coral. “It was true. I was going to tell you that night—the night we were married—but other things happened. And I knew that it was too late to tell you, in any case. I’m sorry that I deceived you.”

  “Oh, no,” he said. “No. I understand. How difficult things were for you then.”

  Coral said nothing. She looked down at her hands. She was still wearing her white gloves, but they were both grimed—from when she had fainted in the square, no doubt. She took them off and tossed them onto the little table that stood before the sofa. They rested upon one another, two little twisted hands trying to clutch.

  “And did you— How is the child?” Clement asked.

  “The child?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Your child.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Oh—no. The child is gone.”

  He was not sure what she meant by this. “I’m so sorry,” he said.

  Coral said nothing for a moment, and then reached out for her gloves, shook the frozen gesture out of them, and rolled one tightly inside the other, then put the little ball of them on the floor, as if there were something shamefully intimate and untoward in their public display.

  “How did you find me?” she asked. “How did know to come here?”

  “I came up to London yesterday to consult a doctor about my—my skin. I’ve been having some troubles. And he mentioned the National Health, and I remembered Dolly had said that you were working for them; it was one of the few things she remembered from your letters. You see, she read them before Robin destroyed them. Fortunately. Or perhaps not. In any case, I thought I would go to the hospital and try to find out about you, see if I could find you. And it was quite easy, as the Sister told me you worked out of St James, and would be there in the morning.

  “So I returned to the hospital this morning, and when you did not appear, the Sister was worried. She said it was unlike you to miss work. She telephoned here, and your landlady told her that you had left this morning as usual, which caused the Sister to be even more concerned. I asked her for your address, so that I might come and try to find you. At first she would not tell me, for she said it was against regulations, but then I remembered something that changed everything. Do you know what I remembered?”

  “No,” said Coral.

  Clement waited a moment, but when Coral said no more, he continued. “I remembered that we were married. That you were my wife. And that therefore I was entitled to be told where you lived. Fortunately, I had our writ of marriage with me, and I showed that to the Sister.” He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew the folded certificate, which he carefully unfolded. He lay it upon the table recently occupied by Coral’s gloves. Because of the way it had been folded, and perhaps pressed against his warm breast, the corners of the paper lifted away from the table, and like a paper bowl it rested daintily upon the point where the four creases met. Clement reached out his large hand and smoothed the paper against the table’s marble surface, but as soon as he raised his hand, the paper lifted its edges away from the table once again, yet less wilfully.

  “She could see then, the Sister, that there was no regulation keeping her from telling me where you lived, and she did so: sixteen Grantley Terrace, she said, and very kindly said she thought it was near the Gloucester Road.”

  Coral said nothing; she seemed somewhat stunned by Clement’s speech, or perhaps it was the lingering effects of her recent collapse. She stared blankly at the paper on the table before them for a moment, and then said, “But why—why did you want to see me?”

  “I don’t know,” said Clement. “It’s all very confusing, of course, everything that’s happened, and I didn’t know what to think.”

  “You thought I hadn’t written to you?” asked Coral.

  “Yes. Well, of course I did. What else could I think? I asked Dolly and Robin every time I saw them if a letter from you had come, and they always said no. Of course I believed them. Robin, especially. He was my friend.”

  “They didn’t like me,” said Coral. “I thought you knew that.”

  “Of course they liked you. They both told
me so in no uncertain terms.”

  “Yes, but don’t you see now that they lied to you? As they did about the letters?”

  “Only Robin lied. Dolly did not know about the letters. As soon as she found them, she told me.”

  “How do you know?”

  “How do I know what?”

  “How do you know that she told you as soon as she knew about them? I’m sure she knew about them all along. They were sent to her house, after all.”

  “Why did you not write to me directly when you had no response?”

  “Because you told me to write to Dolly and Robin. I was doing what you wanted, what you told me to do. And then when you didn’t answer, I assumed you had never intended to. And I saw then that our marriage was a mistake, done in some sort of desperation on both our parts, I think, and was best forgotten.”

  “Oh, Coral,” said Clement. “Do you still feel that way?”

  “Of course I do,” said Coral. “As time passes, it only becomes clearer.” She reached out and touched the paper on the table before them. “I suppose we should do something about this,” she said.

  “What?” asked Clement.

  “We should divorce,” said Coral. “There is no reason for us to stay married now.”

  “Oh,” said Clement. “Yes. I suppose. Have you—is there someone else you would like to marry?”

  “Oh, no,” said Coral. “I did not mean that. No. I want never to marry again. I was thinking of you.”

  “Well, I shall never marry again. Marrying once was apparently more than I could manage.”

  “You just married the wrong person,” said Coral. “Think of Mrs Prence. You have only to meet your Inspector Hoke.” She laughed.

  “I’m sorry, but I do not find that funny, Coral, not funny at all. I did not marry the wrong person. Did you?”

  “Oh, Clement—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make a joke of anything. Really, I didn’t. I just don’t know what to think—how can I? You cannot appear like this, and tell me these things, and expect me to know what to think or say. It’s all such a muddle.”

  “Yes,” he said. “Of course, you’re right.” He took the certificate off of the table, carefully folded it along its creases, and returned it to the pocket inside his jacket. “And I am sure you are right about ending our marriage as well. Forgive me for not having better sense about that. You know how stupid I am about these things.”

  He stood up.

  “Clement,” said Coral. “Don’t go. Please sit down again.”

  “No,” said Clement. “You should lie down. I have upset you enough already. And besides, I have an appointment in Harley Street. The doctor I saw yesterday suggested I consult a colleague, who will no doubt pass me along to yet someone else. That seems to me all doctors are good at. I would do much better, I think, to simply take the train home.”

  Clement stood there for a moment, considering.

  “Of course you should go and see the doctor,” said Coral.

  “I don’t suppose…” said Clement, but halted.

  “You don’t suppose what?” asked Coral.

  “Oh, nothing,” he said. “No.” But then he turned to her. “I was only wondering if, perhaps, this evening—”

  He halted again, and this time Coral did not prompt him. “It was only that I wondered if you might dine with me this evening. If I go to see this other doctor now, as you suggest, instead of going home, I will be alone in the city tonight, which is something I don’t enjoy. It would mean so much to me if you would join me. Unless, of course, you have other plans, which I suppose you must.”

  “No,” said Coral. “I have no plans.”

  “I’m staying at Durrants. I believe the food they serve is acceptable, but I would happily take you anywhere. I’m afraid I don’t know anything about restaurants in London. But I should so like to hear about your life here.”

  Coral said nothing.

  “Do you know Durrants?” Clement asked.

  “No,” said Coral.

  “It is in Manchester Square,” said Clement.

  Coral turned to him and said, “I only said that I had no plans this evening. I said nothing about anything else.”

  He looked puzzled for a moment, as if she were speaking in some language he was a student of, and comprehended only with delaying effort. Then her meaning seemed to pierce him. He winced and said, “Of course. I’m sorry. I misunderstood you.”

  Suddenly a loud roar came from the street, and they both heard the windows battered. Clement walked across the room and drew back one of the drapes. The world had gone terribly dark, and it was pouring with rain outside, too much rain all at once, as unconvincing as in a film.

  Coral rose from the couch and came and stood beside Clement. There was something wonderful about the rain, the force of it, and the amazing quickness with which the day went from light to dark. They stood there, side by side, watching the rain pelt the pavement of Grantley Terrace, watching the drops smack the street and splash upwards, the mesmerizing confusion of it, the movement down followed so quickly, so impossibly quickly, by the movement up.

  * * *

  Coral sat at her open window looking down into the garden, waiting for it to be time to walk across the park and have dinner with Clement at Durrants.

  She had bathed and was wearing her best dress, which was still the navy blue with white polka dots she had worn to visit Walter DeVries. The only difference was she had a navy blue bag now, which was much better with the dress than the black.

  A woman entered the next-door garden and emptied rubbish into a bin, then lit a cigarette. She stood there smoking, basking in the early evening light. The rain had stopped, leaving an almost cool freshness behind. Coral watched the smoke from the woman’s cigarette drift up into the lighted air.

  Someone knocked on the door and Coral called out, “Come in.”

  Madame Paszkowska opened the door. Coral stood.

  “Coral,” Madame Paszkowska said, “how pretty you look. What a pretty dress.”

  “Thank you,” said Coral.

  Madame Paszkowska stood in the doorway, as if uncertain why she was there. “Are you feeling better?” she finally asked.

  “Yes,” said Coral. “I am feeling fine now. It is a lovely evening.”

  They both looked at the open window. “Yes,” said Madame Paszkowska, “how I love these summer evenings.” She said nothing more, but continued to gaze out of the window at the pale blue sky.

  After a moment Coral said, “What is it? Is something wrong?”

  “Oh,” said Madame Paszkowska. “I am afraid—I think I did do something wrong this afternoon.”

  Coral waited for her to continue, and when she did not, Coral said, “What did you do?”

  “This afternoon, when you were in the drawing room with your friend, do you remember I said I would bring you tea?”

  “Yes,” said Coral. “I remember.”

  “Well, I did, but instead of bringing it into the room, as I should have done, I am afraid I stood outside the door and listened to your conversation.”

  “Oh,” said Coral.

  “I am very sorry,” said Madame Paszkowska. “I know it was a wrong thing to do. And I am not in the habit of, how do you say—eardropping?”

  “Eavesdropping,” said Coral.

  “Oh.” Madame Paszkowska seemed doubtful, but continued. “And so I learned that your friend—that man—he is your husband. That you are married, no?”

  “Yes,” said Coral.

  “Of course I am surprised. You have never mentioned to me that you are married.”

  “No,” said Coral. “I have not.”

  “It is all very confusing, I know. All of our lives. But I learn this about you today, and now I do not know what to do…”

  “About what?” asked Coral.

  “I know—I cannot help but know—that you and Lazlo have been … intime. And I think that perhaps, I could be wrong, but yet I think that you may have some love for
Lazlo.”

  Madame Paszkowska paused, but Coral did not respond. It was almost as if she had not been listening to what Madame Paszkowska said.

  “Oh, Coral!” exclaimed Madame Paszkowska. “I do not know what is right or wrong. I only want to help you, because I have such warm feeling for you, and you seem to be so alone. Is this man today your husband?”

  “Yes,” said Coral. “But not really.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “Neither do I,” said Coral. “Not really. We were married to each other before I came to London. But it was an odd marriage.”

  “Many marriages are odd,” said Madame Paszkowska. “I myself have had two.”

  “Mine was very odd,” said Coral. “It lasted a day. Less than a day.”

  “But you will be together again, now that he has found you?”

  “I don’t know,” said Coral.

  “Is it because of Lazlo that you do not go back to him?”

  “No,” said Coral. “It has nothing to do with Lazlo.”

  “That is what I worry,” said Madame Paszkowska. “I worry that perhaps you think Lazlo— I do not know what Lazlo has told you, if you know that he is engaged to be married.”

  “No,” said Coral. “I did not know.”

  “A girl he has met on holiday in Lowestoft. She is a nice girl, from a good French family, he says. Her name is Yvonne Marchand. They will marry in September.”

  Coral closed her eyes. She cannot be from a very a very good family if she spends her holiday in Lowestoft, she thought. She opened her eyes and reached out and straightened the painting that hung on the wall, the painting of the two red-breasted robins perched upon the rim of their nest. Then she sat upon her bed. “Why do you tell me this?” she asked Madame Paszkowska. “I don’t think it concerns me.”

  “If I am unwelcome, please forgive me,” said Madame Paszkowska. “It was wrong, perhaps, to speak to you of this. But I was not sure, all afternoon, I wonder what I should do, what I should say, or if I should do, say, nothing, and I think it is best to say these things because they may mean something to you, but you must forgive me if I have done the wrong thing.”

  “No,” said Coral. “You have been very kind. And I am very happy for Lazlo and Yvonne. And how happy you must be!”