by Angela Huth
As it was too early for the Star to be open, Henry went to Mr Daly’s office behind the ironmonger’s shop. It was a private place, the office. Crammed with old papers and bits and pieces, a terrible mess, quite unlike home. Above the desk hung a 1954 calendar, a picture of ducks on the Cam. Cambridge, Henry had thought lately, would be a good place to take the Leopard – probably she would prefer it to Blackpool. There was a train timetable somewhere . . . he might look up a train. The Morris Minor was in no condition to make the journey to Cambridge, or indeed anywhere else.
Henry shuffled among the papers, pushing aside a bottle of dried ink, an assortment of pens with rusty nibs, a bag of screws and some lengths of fine chain. It pleased him to be back. No one could worry him here, he could do things in his own time. Daly would be in with a mug of tea, shortly, then he would go through the books before opening time. Regretfully – for he liked to do things that had some small connection with the Leopard, even though she was unaware of his existence – Henry gave up his search for the railway timetable, and turned to the first of the accounts books. In his absence Mr Daly had been filling them in each night. They were, Henry noticed at once, quite illegible. The writing was blurred, as if it had been left out in the rain. Henry rubbed his eyes. There was no improvement. The figures remained unclear to him. He remembered, then, he had had difficulty reading the paper yesterday. Come to think of it, ever since the accident his eyes had been giving him trouble. At this rate he’d have to arrange a private visit to an optician: one thing he couldn’t tolerate would be Rosie’s concern.
The door opened. Daly stood there, two mugs of tea in his hands. Their steam had misted his glasses.
‘Back on the road, then? Better, are you? I reckoned you’d be away a week or so.’
‘Mending nicely,’ said Henry. Daly put one of the mugs on the desk, scattering a clump of drawing-pins. ‘Thanks. Things all right here?’
‘So so. Can’t hope for too much seeing as the country’s in the hands of the Unions.’
‘No,’ said Henry. The tea scalded his aching ribs, but there was comfort in the beginnings of their ritual conversation.
‘Small shopholder’s bloody strangled.’
‘He is, too,’ agreed Henry.
‘This rate, I’ll be putting up the shutters within the next year or so.’
Henry looked up, surprised. It had always been Daly’s habit to declare he would not be beaten by the system.
‘As a matter of a fact,’ Daly went on, ‘while on that subject, there’s something I shall have to speak of. . . to you, personally,’ he added. He took off his glasses and polished the steam from them with a handkerchief streaked with grease. Henry sensed his awkwardness.
‘Oh, yes?’
‘It’s the books, Henry.’
‘The books?’
‘There’ve been mistakes. A lot of mistakes.’
‘Mistakes?’
‘Errors. Call them what you will.’ There was a silence between the two men. They sipped their tea, then, simultaneously breaking it. ‘You’ve always been so accurate, you see. I was surprised. But these last weeks, there’s no doubt, there’ve been bad mistakes.’
‘It’s been my eyes,’ said Henry, at last. ‘They’ve been giving trouble.’
‘Ah,’ said Daly. ‘You should get them seen to.’
Henry ran a finger round his collar. The tea was unusually bitter. The smell of paraffin in the room almost stifled him. The words on the piles of papers all about him were a jumble. But clear in his mind was the picture of someone else checking his books. Someone else sneaking in, after hours, double-checking his calculations at Daly’s request. Some nosey-parker accountant disputing his sums, criticising the impeccable neatness of the figures he had taken much pride in for the last few years.
‘Why didn’t you say something about this before?’ he asked, at last. ‘Why didn’t you come to me, direct like, instead of checking up behind my back?’
‘It wasn’t a matter of checking up behind your back . . .’
‘It bloody was.’
‘Now look here, Henry. No need to take offence. We’ve had a good working partnership these last years, and I wouldn’t like us to fall out. I’d be very sad about that, very sad indeed. I mean, we’ve always understood each other. But lately, common knowledge, you’ve been under the weather. Not your former self –’
‘Common knowledge?’ Henry felt weakness splinter his ribs.
‘Well, people have been saying this and that.’
‘What manner of things have they been saying?’
‘Nothing offensive, mark my word. Nothing offensive. You’re a well respected member of the community, take it from me. But it’s been noted you’ve been spending a lot more time than usual at the Star. And on some occasions . . .’
‘Ah, I understand,’ said Henry.
‘Well, any of us, some occasions, human weakness . . . I know how it is. Used to drink a bit too much myself, years ago.’
‘Did you.’ Henry’s answer was too flat to be called a question. Daly gripped his mug with both hands, as if to brace himself.
‘And the long and the short of it is this, Henry,’ he said, ‘I am terminating your job.’
Terminating. Terminal. A word from the world of trains and fatal illness. A chilly word. A word that pushed you outside, gave you the sack, said you’d lost your chance. Meant the end. No more peaceful mornings in the unruly office, – walls the colour of dead skin, as they sometimes seemed to Henry – crouched happily over the lined paper, ballpoint pressing into the spongey texture, adding up out loud, tongue slipping over dry lips between each column . . .
‘I understand,’ said Henry. When the end of something came, there was no point in hanging about. When he’d left the girl in Marseilles, he remembered, she’d stood on the jetty, waving her handkerchief, wiping her eyes: but he had turned away quickly, gone below decks. No use prolonging such moments. He stood up, put out a hand to Daly. They shook, quite friendly.
‘Goes without saying, I’m very sorry about this,’ said Daly.
‘Quite,’ said Henry.
‘And I shall of course be sending you a suitable cheque – a small golden handshake, you might call it. A token of my appreciation.’ He smiled slightly: teeth all shades of brown and black. ‘Expect, anyway, you’ll have no difficulty, man of your qualifications, finding another little job. Must be awkward, retirement, for someone like you.’
Henry attempted a return smile, but it turned out to be a grimace against the pain in his ribs.
‘I shall do very nicely, I’ve no doubt,’ he said, and glanced finally at the ducks on the Cam. ‘Might even find time to visit Cambridge. A thing I’ve always had in mind.’
‘Ah, Cambridge, now,’ said Daly, and opened the door for Henry to pass through into the shop.
Outside, the air was invigorating, the sky still blue. He’d been worried for some time, of course, that calculating hadn’t come so easily to him, that on certain days VAT confused his head considerably. But he had hoped Daly would not notice, would not catch him out. He had hoped he could have hung on, struggling through the figures, somehow, until the day of the Leopard, when everything in the world would be clear again. Well, luck had turned against him. It was a blow, but what was one more blow? Only problem was what to tell Rosie. The last thing he wanted was her sympathy. He’d have to make sure to avoid that. Think up some story over a drink.
Henry looked at his watch. Opening time. A double Scotch, he needed, to dull the bloody ache in his ribs, and to clear the water in his eyes. Slowly, he set off in the direction of the Star.
That afternoon it was Rosie’s turn to do the church flowers. This was a duty shared by three ladies of the village, and Rosie, allowing herself the small vanity, had always felt herself to be the superior arranger. Today she had picked a bunch of shaggy-headed chrysanthemums from her own garden, bronze and claret, and a few yellows, as bright as sunflowers. There was in fact a small supply of petty ca
sh available to buy the altar flowers, but Rosie felt it a matter of pride never to use it. When there were no flowers in her own garden she made do with hedgerow things and, at rose time, she took advantage of Mr Browne’s kind offer, when he moved to the house some years ago, to help herself from the garden of Wroughton House.
She stretched up now, patting the flowers into place, balancing their stems in the tall vases of golden china bequeathed to the church by a former vicar’s wife. A shaft of late sun came through the stained glass window, fretting her bare hands and arms with blues and reds and greens. It was a peaceful place, and she liked to be there alone. She liked to run her hands along the altar cloth, feel the softness of its satin, and the sudden hard ridges of embroidery; arum lilies beautifully depicted in gold thread some hundred years ago. It had been just such an afternoon, she recalled, that she and Henry had stood looking up at the lighted candles on the altar, promising they would stick to each other for better or for worse, and Rosie had had no doubts in her heart that any event could change their resolution. Oh, it had been a happy day. Friends and relations squashed into the house for sherry and beer and sausages and wedding cake: the taste of her mother’s powdery tears as they had kissed each other goodbye. And all the village, it seemed, had turned out to wave goodbye.
They had been driven away in an old upright taxi, its windscreen so thick with confetti the driver had had to use the wipers to clear his view, to a small village not far from Wroughton. They spent the weekend in a simple hotel run by a distant aunt: it stood on the banks of a river, and there seemed to be the permanent noise of river birds outside their window. What a night that had been! Rosie on her knees at the altar, sweeping up fallen leaves, felt herself blush. Such memories were out of place in church, she told herself, but, and may the Lord forgive her, Henry had done such wonderful things. She paused in her sweeping, newly aware of the hideous shapes of the hands that held the dustpan and brush. What had she done to be so cursed? Had it not been for them, there might have been years of wonderful nights. As it was, once she had become pregnant, Henry’s interest in any kind of night-time activity began to wane. Rosie had never liked to ask him what was the matter, of course, and tried to believe him when he pleaded tiredness at the end of a long day in the brickworks. But sometimes she caught him looking at her hands, as she sat by the fire sewing or knitting. He never said anything, but Rosie knew. She could tell by his look he regretted having married a woman with such ugly hands, however much, in those early years, he claimed he loved her (which, in truth, was not very often).
Rosie walked down the altar steps and closed the wooden gate behind her. Now, there was little hope. She might persevere – indeed, nothing would stop her determined perseverance – but there was no real hope. And faith without hope was of little value. This afternoon, forcing herself to face the reality of the situation, Rosie felt a heaviness of step. Her feet were clumsy, unusually noisy in the quiet of the aisle. There seemed to be a weight in her stomach. Neither the thought of God’s great love, nor of the jam sponge she had made for tea, could lighten her darkness. She contemplated kneeling for a moment and praying for strength. But there was a danger that Mrs Jackson would come in to neaten the prayer books, as she bossily took it upon herself to do most afternoons, and catch Rosie at it. Well, to Rosie’s mind prayer was a private matter, except when you were part of a congregation, and she didn’t wish Mrs Jackson or even the vicar himself to see her down on her knees: knowing their minds, they’d instantly suspect she was in some kind of trouble and, God forgive her, she’d do anything to avoid that.
She returned the dust-pan and brush to the cupboard in the vestry, and threw away the bunch of dead flowers which Bridget Goff, bless her heart, had made a real mess of last week. Then she walked home to get the tea.
She found Henry asleep in his chair, mouth open, spittle running down his chin. Rosie uttered a small cry of relief: at least he was safely home. When she had returned from shopping this morning and found him gone, and then he had not appeared for lunch, she had guessed where he could be found and had steeled herself not to go in search of him. But it had been a worrying time because he was still in a shocked condition. The doctor said he should have had a week in bed before trying to resume normal life. And there he was, obstinate old thing, plain defying the doctor’s orders. Though of course it was his spirit Rosie loved him for. All she could wish . . . and, apart from that, that he would let her know his movements, sometimes, to save her so much worry.
Rosie knelt on the floor beside him and gently dabbed at his chin with her handkerchief. He stirred abruptly, then swiped at her with his arm, pushing her roughly away.
‘Bloody woman!’ she heard him mutter. He moaned, as if the gesture had hurt his ribs.
Rosie gasped. She stood up, backing away from him. He opened his eyes. They were bloodshot, watering. His mouth moved, but whatever he said was incomprehensible. A terrible word came to Rosie, then: a word which had been trying to press its way through to her consciousness for weeks, and which she had kept rejecting. But now it screamed through her mind, wild, frightening: drunk.
Henry was absolutely drunk.
The heaviness Rosie had felt in church fled from her. Scarcely knowing what she did, she ran from the kitchen, coatless, slamming the door behind her. She hurried back to the churchyard, made her way to the dark corner where her mother was buried between two yew trees. Rosie flung herself down upon the tombstone. The chill of its marble flared through her thin skirt and blouse, and stung her forehead. She wept for a while, not knowing whether to call upon God or her dead mother: feeling neither would understand her horror. Henry seemed to be set upon a course from which there was no turning back. She doubted all the love she could give him could save him now. She should have faced the truth sooner, months ago: consulted the doctor, tried to talk to Henry. What had led him to this? It was as if there was some canker within him, consuming him, taking him further and further from the one who loved him with her whole being . . .
After some time Rosie dragged herself into a sitting position, and rested her head and hands upon the headstone. It was a bulky cross made of rough granite, and hurt her skin. Feeling the pain, Rosie dragged her hands along its arms till the pain increased. Then she turned her hands and scraped their backs along the cross, drawing blood. They looked as if they had been dragged through brambles, the blood a pattern of small dots. Rosie gazed unbelieving at what she had done. Then she stood up, noticing a ladder in her stocking. It was quite cold by now. The sun was setting behind the church. She shivered, wondering at her own behaviour. The strain, she thought, these weeks, had been too much: she must take a hold on herself. Never again would she give in to such a display of hysteria. Disgraceful, Rosie, her mother would have said. Quite disgraceful. She’d be turning in her grave.
Rosie walked back along the church path, calmed by her own shame. She would wash the blood from her hands and get Henry’s tea as if nothing had happened: the weak moment would be banished from her mind. And this evening, when Henry returned to the Star, she would cut herself a new pair of mittens. Now, she was quite resigned.
By November the office men were taking further dreadful liberties. They sent men to measure up the rose garden, where they planned to build a prefabricated extension to house the typists. They sent men to judge the state of the elms, and the brick walls round the kitchen garden, and the ailing fig tree. They would stand in the sweep of drive by the front door, scratching at their nylon collars, envisaging the neo-Georgian porch with which the architect planned to improve it. Augusta, from an upstairs window, would watch them. They took no notice of her.
She would watch them and remember the day of the move to the house: it was May, very warm, white butterflies hovering like occasional snowflakes about the lavender, the village grocer bringing loaves, assuming they would need bread. In and out of the house she and Hugh went, directing where the furniture should be placed, always seeming to agree.
By evening th
e rooms were furnished though there were no curtains and many of the walls were still shabby with old paint. Among the piles of unsorted stuff in the hall Augusta found vases, and instantly arranged bunches of lilac: so that her earliest memory of the house included the smell of flowers. Hugh, she observed that night, already wore the face of a squire: he had laughed, said what nonsense, she was the grand one. They had wandered about till it was quite dark, carrying candles into unlighted rooms, making their endless plans; it had taken a long search to find this house, and buying it, they both knew, was probably financially irresponsible. But they were full of mutual optimism. Something would happen. Money would come from somewhere. They would do things slowly. After all, there were unlimited years.
But Augusta was of an impatient nature and organised the decorating, as economically as she was able, quickly. Within months, all but the attics were ready for living. And then came the friends, for weekends, for parties: so much pleasure. But, at quieter times, the problems: the rotting stables, leaking roof, new machinery needed by the gardener . . . Demands that seemed endless, but for a while, surmountable.
And now that Hugh was gone, and the house was almost gone, the weakness of nostalgia left her without defence. Despising her own frailty, she tried to fight the invious sorrow from hour to hour. But the empty house, the empty rooms, the empty garden crowded with happy recollections, made mockery of her battle.