The Backward Shadow

by Lynne Reid Banks

  ‘Listen, couldn’t you come? Sell your share of this shop enterprise and the cottage, and take David to a place where you don’t have to muffle him up like an eskimo half the year? Think of him crawling in and out of the Med, pottering about in the nude—you too. Be easier for you in all sorts of ways. Couldn’t you fancy it?’

  I could and did. There was nothing, at that low-water-mark of my life, that I fancied more than a life of soporific warmth, a total change, new surroundings, in a word—escape. I let myself play like a child with the idea for a whole day and night, tossing it about in my head and in conversation with Father—a bright-coloured irresponsible ball; I didn’t bother about details like the fact that I would have to get work there, that neither of us spoke any language but English, that we could certainly not afford to live anywhere near the white-sanded shore we were dreaming about but would probably find ourselves in some hot dusty flat in the middle of some unfriendly provincial town somewhere; it was not worth spoiling the game with such unwelcome realities because I knew all the time that I wouldn’t be going.

  By the time Father had kissed me goodbye at the station, the bubble had been duly pricked and I drove home through a sudden chilling squall feeling deeply and newly depressed. The prospect of losing Father—of his being out of reach—added a new dimension to my encroaching sense of solitude and feebleness. Was there to be nobody left to lean on? Life seemed intent upon knocking the props out from under me one by one, saying maliciously as it did so: ‘You wanted the chance to be brave and independent, didn’t you? Well, here it comes, and I hope it chokes you.’

  Chapter 18

  JULY wasn’t a bad month as far as the shop was concerned, and our busyness disguised, for the moment, the growing undercurrents of tension between the three of us. The weather treated us kindly; David spent most of his days out in the garden, stumbling about in the long grass of our shamefully neglected lawn, and happily pulling out flowers and weeds with great impartiality. He was a baby no longer: his puppy-fat fell away and he showed himself tall and sturdy and slightly knock-kneed, with strong, up-springing darkish hair and great eyes ‘the colour of a beer-bottle’, as Henry said, though Dottie demurred and said it sounded better to say they were the colour of fine ale. ‘Yes, Watney’s brown,’ said Henry. He was always good with David, and it worried me to see him romping with him, letting him clamber over him, kick him, and jump on him as if he were in perfect health. But when I glanced once at Dottie in veiled anxiety, she simply shook her head.

  One day Henry invited his father’s family to visit the shop and us. Joanna, Mr. Barclay’s ex-actress wife, had been begging to come for a long time, but for some reason Henry had put her off; I guessed it was because he wanted his father to see a successful-looking concern, and not one which was in its infancy and might be expected to collapse at any moment. He gave a great deal of attention to the displays and to the whole appearance of the shop in preparation for the visit, and dropped me several lively hints that he would appreciate the putting-on of all possible dog in the way of lunch.

  Fortunately Dottie had just received a consignment of glass from Ron, including some very original and attractive things. Plus a new line in ceramic tableware from the local potter, hitherto an amateur, who had fallen total prey to Dottie’s charms and had been working day and night for her to produce a matching service of bowls, plates and serving-dishes with a marvellous sort of speckled sludge glaze. These were on show in the window, and as soon as she saw them Joanna fell for them and demanded that Henry’s father buy them for her as a gift. He was clearly reluctant, on all counts: first because he thought them drab and hideous, an opinion he voiced without restraint—‘’Aven’t you anything a bit more cheerful? Looks like that lot’s been laying out in a ditch.’ Secondly, because he obviously felt embarrassed and put out at being forced to buy anything from his son. He made several pointed and elephantine jokes to the effect that a father shouldn’t have to buy things from his own son’s establishment; but Henry blandly ignored them and smilingly promised that the whole set would be packed up ready to take back with them when they left, and that he was delighted Jo liked them. He didn’t even offer to make a special price. I watched him, patently enjoying himself as his father looked grudgingly round at the elegant good taste of the interior and the hand-made quality goods, and suspected that time was bringing in one of its sweet revenges.

  Ted Barclay was a tough, chunky little Cockney in his 60’s, beefy-cheeked from uncountable pints and with thick, stubby, capable hands like Henry’s own. These hands he seemed unable to keep far from Joanna. I saw at once what Henry meant about her. She was tough too, but only inwardly; physically she was delicate-looking, almost fey, with an aureole of fine blonde hair and a make-up—all fragile pinks and peaches stamped with strongly-lashed eyes through which a determined character struck out at you—which looked still like a stage-make-up carefully toned down. Her clothes were in excellent taste, the country gentlewoman, though not tweedy of course—that wouldn’t have suited her; powder-blue linen, all crisp and simple, with a frightfully smart chunky white cardigan ending neatly at the waist and with short sleeves. I could see Dottie admiring her. I wondered if Henry had told her that he had once wanted to marry Joanna. I could understand it—she was very attractive, very warm and lively, and only stagey enough to keep everyone’s eyes riveted on her without its seeming overdone. She had a peculiar trick of appearing to say the exact truth all the time with no evasions or social compromises, though I suppose this is an impossibility. Anyway it gave one a breathless feeling of waiting to see what she would say next, and to analyse her gift of being so forthright without ever being cruel or offensive. I was at last able to see how she had been able to put it up to Ted Barclay, cold-turkey, that she would marry him for his money, and emerge from the negotiations not only with a husband but one who respected her for her honesty.

  She spent about an hour and a half in the shop, just wandering about looking at everything, handling things sensuously, holding lengths of curtaining fabric up against herself, rubbing her cheeks and lips against wood and glaze finishes, playing with toys and once in an absent way trying a tea-cosy on as a hat. Nobody laughed—she looked very good in it. She never put anything back where she’d found it, and Henry followed her round, indulgently tidying up after her, throwing little pacifying glances at Dottie and leaving me to handle the few customers who happened by while they were there. His father sat rather heavily on a whitewood milking-stool looking very uncomfortable and bored except when Joanna spoke to him or showed him something. It was perfectly clear there was nothing here for him, and he watched the growing pile of things she wanted to buy with wry incomprehension.

  ‘All very nice,’ he grumbled once or twice. ‘But where’s the customers? I don’t see the customers.’ He turned to me. ‘Here it is,’ he said, ‘Saturday morning, and the place is empty. Who’s been in?—a couple of old trokes from the neighbourhood and one posh couple from Town, and between them they bought two china mugs and a glass ashtray. You’re not likely to double your capital in two years, son, like I did, if you carry on with stuff like this. Unless of course I bring Jo in every week to buy up the shop.’

  Henry smiled imperturbably, though I thought I saw a gleam of annoyance in his eyes. ‘As it happens, I’ll double it in one year, if we go on as we’ve started,’ he said, which was the first lie I’d ever heard him tell. ‘Most of our big sales aren’t over the counter at all.’ I thought about the muck-and-mystery man and felt grim all over again. ‘And we’re working on the possibility of a tie-up with a big shop in London—our own section.’

  Dottie and I looked at him. I was about to exclaim ‘First I’ve heard of it!’ or something stupid when I realised that I’d just heard him tell his second lie. ‘Which shop’s that then?’ asked Ted rather disgruntled. Henry was stuck for a moment and all might have been lost, but for Dottie who quick as a flash said ‘Heal’s of course,’ as if there were no other shop. Ted grunted non
-committally but he shut up after that and wrote out the fat cheque for Jo’s purchases with no more than a token protest.

  We didn’t normally close on Saturday afternoons, but that day we did, and after a fairly elaborate lunch at the cottage, which I’d spent most of the previous night preparing, Ted took us all out for a drive in his really very magnificent Bentley. David came too, sitting on my knee, and Joanna sat next to me in the back and we had a long child-bore conversaion which lasted until each had convinced herself that her own child was superior. In the process we felt oddly close, and I decided I could really like her, despite the fact that I knew she was as hard as nails; she was also very honest and a lot of fun. Dottie meanwhile, poor thing, sat beside us and stared out of the window, though she was actually trying to listen to what Ted and Henry were talking about in the front. I gathered that Henry was continuing to string his dad the most amazing line about the success of the business, and that Ted, though he said very little other than grunts, was obviously taking it all in.

  Joanna must have been taking it in too, out of the corner of her ear, so to speak, in the way that good wives often can, because she suddenly lowered her voice from the pitch it had reached a moment previously in describing Amanda’s latest achievements in the field of mobility and said, ‘Henry’s enjoying himself, bless him. He must have been looking forward to this for a long time.’ ‘To what?’ I asked, as Dottie turned her head slightly to catch this turn in a conversation which had previously left her cold. ‘Showing Ted that quality pays,’ she said with a chuckle. ‘He won’t fully convince him, of course, no matter how hard he tries; but he’s not doing so badly. I can see my old man’s not unimpressed, in spite of himself.’

  We stopped for tea at one of those mock-tudor places with tables set out on a lawn in front, spoiled by striped umbrellas with some brand-name emblazoned on them, and ate scones and jam and an assortment of little cup-cakes covered with shiny pink icing and blobs of unreal cream. Ted got into a slightly better humour; it was such a pleasant day, we were all enjoying the drive in his splendid car and had told him so several times, and there was a big dog there which took a liking to him. Of course this is always flattering, and I rather warmed to Ted for going all soggy when this great slavering beast came and put its head on his knee. ‘Why can’t we have a dog?’ he said to Jo, in a plaintive voice, like a child who has pursued the matter naggingly for weeks, as indeed it appeared that he had, for Jo dismissed him with the words: ‘I’ve told you a hundred times, a, I’m scared of them. And b, they’re dirty. And, c, it might bite Amanda.’ ‘Oh, don’t talk so daft! Dogs don’t bite babies, they protect ’em!’ ‘So you always say, but I’m not prepared to risk Amanda getting rabies in order to settle the argument. And that’s final.’ Whereupon Ted lapsed into glum silence and rubbed the resident dog wistfully behind the ears.

  In the short silence before general conversation started up again, I had time to wonder suddenly and shockingly if Ted and Joanna knew about Henry. I instantly decided they didn’t. They couldn’t possibly, and behave as they had, somehow. And yet—we knew, and how were we behaving? What if Joanna, who was sitting very still with her eyes resting on Henry’s face as he drank his tea, was at this very moment thinking: ‘What would these two self-immersed girls think if they knew what I know?’ I tried to read her expression as she looked at him. Was I mistaken, or was there a look of tenderness, of sorrow … ? No. It was nothing but a casual glance—a moment later he set down his cup and she leant forward to refill it and began chatting away about the things she had liked in the shop, which caused Ted to get heavily to his feet and say, ‘I think I’ll take a trot round the premises and see what they got in their beds that I haven’t.’ ‘In their whats?’ asked Dottie, her eyebrows rising. ‘Flower-beds, ducks. Cor, what a mind these young girls got these days!’ And he strolled away, snapping his fingers surreptitiously for the dog, which lumbered obligingly after him.

  As soon as he’d gone round the corner, Joanna leant back in her wicker chair and looked at Henry again, a different look this time, sharp and knowing and humorous, even a little bitchy perhaps. ‘Well! Now he’s out of the way, p’raps you’ll tell me how the business is really doing.’

  Henry looked decidedly startled, but then he, too, sat back, answering her look with a rather rueful grin. He appeared relaxed for the first time that day. ‘Might’ve known there’d be no fooling you,’ he said.

  ‘That bad?’

  ‘No, no. Just a rather dicey patch, that’s all. We’ve done pretty well taking things all round, up to recently; let’s just say things are not quite as rosy as I painted them for Dad’s benefit.’

  ‘So I supposed. But you’ll be all right? I mean, that marvellous business will thrive, in the end, won’t it?’ She looked at Dottie. ‘I think I’d weep if it didn’t,’ she said, sounding perfectly serious.

  Dottie shrugged lightly. ‘We’ve done our very best. Now it’s in the lap of the gods.’

  ‘Henry?’

  ‘It certainly ought to go,’ he said, lighting his pipe with lowered eyes.

  ‘“But we’ll do more, Horatio—we’ll deserve it.”’ Henry looked up at her questioningly, and she gave him the whole quote in a slightly teasing, sing-song voice: ‘’Tis-not-in-mortals-to-command-success—you know. It’s my philosophy of life. Unfortunately it doesn’t always work out right. It’s bloody, but it doesn’t. Sometimes the better you deserve it—’

  ‘That’s fine, cheer us up,’ said Henry. ‘Anyway, you certainly did your bit today.’ He looked at her with suddenly narrowed eyes. ‘I hope to Christ you really liked all that stuff,’ he said, ‘and didn’t just buy it to—’

  ‘Shut up,’ she said sharply. ‘I don’t ever do stupid, meaningless, dishonest things like that, and you should know it.’

  We drove home, and Henry expansively invited them in for supper, which caused me sinkings of the heart because I hadn’t planned on that; but Joanna, who I imagined to be a thoroughly experienced hostess, took one quick glance at my face (which may well have paled slightly) and chipped in with a grateful but firm refusal. ‘Baby-sitter problems—you know,’ she said cosily to me. We were standing in the lane outside the cottage gate; Ted, with lumbering courtesy, and entirely masculine tenderness, was helping her on with a very glamorous off-white trench-coat lined with dark real fur which, when done up, only showed discreetly at neck and cuffs—an overstated understatement of wealth and restraint. Through this wrist-ruff her thin expressive hand extended itself to shake mine warmly. ‘It’s been gorgeous,’ she said. ‘You must come to us and bring David. And if you can’t or don’t, I’m coming to see you again soon.’ She shook Dottie’s hand more reservedly, and then kissed Henry. She was so petite that she had to stand on tiptoe to do it and watching Dottie I could see that she did know that there had once been something between them (I think I would have guessed it myself from that brief moment even if I hadn’t known) and that she minded. I understood it so well. She had so little of him, she begrudged any form of sharing. And Jo was the sort of woman you would always have to feel a little wary of, however married she was. And I somehow felt that, despite everything, she was very married.

  Then Henry shook hands with Ted, who said grudgingly, ‘Well son, I can’t pretend it hasn’t surprised me a bit, to hear how well you’re making out with that posh ice-cream-and-oysters business of yours. If you really get a concession from Heal’s, you’re away, I suppose. Funny, I thought you’d be sure to come a cropper, trying to flog stuff like that … maybe the public taste’s improving.’

  ‘Let’s hope so—it’s time it did.’

  ‘So long as you’re giving ’em what they want, that’s the way … like I always told you. No good trying to educate ’em. Find out what they want and lay it in by the gross.’ He looked thoughtfully at his brogues for a minute. ‘Funny somehow, to think of my five thousand going on stuff like that.’

  ‘My five thousand, Dad.’

  ‘I mean, that I made.’<
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  ‘I mean, that I made.’

  Ted looked at him a moment, and then laughed and gave him a sort of hug. ‘Yes, well, you’ve learnt something from your old Dad, anyhow. Eh?’

  ‘And let’s hope his old Dad’s learnt something from him,’ put in Jo briskly. ‘Eh? Come on, Ted, we must away.’

  After they’d gone we sat about the living-room and Henry suddenly got up and, after asking my permission, poured himself a large whisky and soda. He went back to his armchair and sat drinking it, looking, I thought, remarkably contented, at least until the drink was finished. Then his conscience started bothering him.

  ‘Maybe I shouldn’t have told all those whoppers to the old man,’ he said. ‘But I couldn’t let him have the laugh on me.’

  ‘He surely wouldn’t have laughed!’

  ‘Oh ho! Would he not! You don’t know him.’ He looked over at Dottie who was staring into the fire with a fixed expression. I knew she was thinking about Jo; I hoped Henry didn’t. ‘But there’s one thing. Moments of desperation can throw up some good ideas. That one about Heal’s—we just might be able to make an honest man of me about that. It’s worth looking into. Eh, Dorothy?’ Dottie came to with a jolt.

  ‘Heal’s? Yes. Yes, I thought when we said it that it would bear investigating. I’ll write and make an appointment—enclose some cuttings from the opening press.’ She got up. ‘I must go to bed,’ she said shortly. ‘Goodnight to you both.’ She gave us a vague salute and went upstairs. She looked awfully tired.

  Henry echoed my thought. ‘She looks tired,’ he said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Just the same, eight p.m.’s pretty early to be going to bed.’

  We said no more. I realised it was the first time for ages that I’d been alone with Henry and I wished I didn’t feel so uncomfortable with him, now that there was nothing to keep the conversation going. I was tired myself, and half-wished he would go; but when I thought of his austere anonymous little flat, and his aloneness once he shut the door after himself there, I felt glad he seemed to want to stay awhile. To be alone and to think about your own death coming closer … Addy had done that, deliberately. But Addy was as strong as a weathered oak, and the commoner forms of loneliness were unknown to her. Henry always appeared very self-sufficient, but there was a vulnerable place inside him that made the way he was behaving all the more admirable.