Authors: Laura Wilson
An Empty Death (21 page)
Jenny tried to pull away, but he held on, hurting her. When she looked down, his knuckles and fingers were white around her wrist. ‘Please . . .’ she said. ‘This isn’t going to help.’
‘I just want to show you,’ he blurted out. ‘I am her husband. Honestly. I can prove it.’ He let go of her, and, as she retreated behind the table, rubbing her arm, he thrust his hand into the top pocket of his battledress blouse and pulled out a tatty-looking wad of papers. ‘My ID card. And here’s a photograph of Elsie.’ He pushed them towards her across the table. Jenny bent her head to look, making sure she was out of his reach. The photograph, showing him and Elsie sitting in deckchairs on a beach, laughing, looked as if it had been carried around for a while.
‘Whatever she thinks,’ he said, ‘I’m not this . . . this other man.’
‘I know you aren’t,’ said Jenny, ‘but’ - she hesitated, pleased that he looked relieved at this but fearful of angering him again - ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea for . . . well, for you to try and see her again - not today, anyway.’
‘What am I going to do?’ His pleasure in being believed - acknowledged for who he really was - was gone. Now his eyes were muddy and resentful, with the look of a man who has realised the magnitude of the catastrophe and is about to buckle under its weight. ‘I shouldn’t be here. They’ll be after me. What the bloody hell am I supposed to do?’ The last word was almost a howl.
Jenny took a decision. She didn’t trust Mr Ingram’s temper - apart from anything else, said a small but persistent voice in the back of her mind, he was probably feeling frustrated sexually. But it was gone six, so Doris was bound to be back soon, and Donald as well. She’d be able to keep him calm for ten minutes or so. The thing to do was to keep on the other side of the table and talk to him. ‘Look,’ she said. ‘Do sit down. Please. You must be tired.’
‘Yes.’ He wiped a hand across his face. ‘I’m exhausted. I haven’t slept properly for weeks . . .’
Mercifully, Doris and Donald arrived at the same time, about five minutes later. Jenny skirted the table carefully and dashed outside, and the three of them had a hastily whispered conference on the front porch, during which Jenny explained what had happened and Donald muttered ‘Christ Almighty’ and cast up his eyes. Sweetened by Doris’s revelation that she’d managed to obtain new razor blades, he was prevailed upon, after more mutterings, to shepherd Mr Ingram to the pub. This was mainly because they could think of nothing else to do with him, also because he looked as though he could do with a drink.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Jenny, when the men had gone, ‘but I just didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t want to say this in front of Don, but she was talking about white slavers and Germans and I don’t know what else. She really has lost her marbles.’
Doris sighed, and Jenny noticed for the first time how strained she looked. ‘I know. She’s been getting odder and odder, what she comes out with. You can’t keep on arguing when she’s making no sense. I’m glad he’s gone though. Don’t think I could manage another of those go’s. I’ve been all day queuing, or that’s how it feels. Honestly, I’m so damn tired, Jen, sometimes I just feel like crying. I know there’s others worse off, but . . .’ Doris pulled a handkerchief out of her sleeve and blew her nose.
‘Are you all right?’ asked Jenny, concerned. ‘It’s not like you to be weepy.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ said Doris, firmly. ‘Don’t fuss.’ She sat down on a kitchen chair and begun fumbling in her handbag. ‘Here,’ she said, pushing a small package across the table. ‘Razor blades. Make sure Ted gets one.’
‘Oh, Doris, I don’t know how you do it, what with all this . . . He’ll be thrilled.’
‘Well,’ said Doris, brusquely, ‘tell him to make the most of it. I heard a rumour today that the Gillette factory was hit.’
‘Mrs Ingram’ll be worried,’ said Jenny. ‘I’ll just go up in case she thinks you’ve parachuted in to ravish her, or something. You just sit there and have a rest.’
‘You know,’ said Jenny, when she’d returned and they were drinking tea, ‘Mrs Ingram asked me to fetch the police again.’
‘I really don’t think that’s a good idea. There’s nothing they could do, and she might end up getting carted off to . . . well, you know where.’
Doris and Jenny looked at each other. Jenny knew that her sister was thinking the same as Mr Ingram had; it had crossed her mind too several times in the last couple of hours. They were both remembering their Aunt Ivy who had been in Friern Barnet Asylum for the last twenty years of her life. As youngsters, the three girls had been pressed into accompanying their mother on her monthly visits. Jenny knew that Doris, like her, was remembering the confusion and despair of the place, their walks around the grounds with her mother struggling to think of things to say and mute Aunt Ivy trying desperately to please them by darting into the bushes and presenting them with handfuls of earth, cigarette ends, and once, appallingly, a dead squirrel.
Auntie Ivy had died before any of them met the men they were to marry. Jenny hadn’t thought it appropriate to mention her existence to Ted - her mother, in fact, had advised against it, and had said something similar to both Doris and Lilian. Even now, Jenny found it hard to talk about, and, judging by Doris’s face, she felt the same way. ‘That’s what I thought,’ she said, drawing a line under the subject. ‘But I did wonder if I should ask Ted to talk to her. He rescued her, after all.’
‘Yes, but she doesn’t remember it, does she? And think about it: if Ted comes in and introduces himself - “I’m Inspector Stratton” - she’ll know he’s your husband, and then she’ll think the whole world is against her. She’ll see it as proof . . .’ Doris groaned. ‘I can’t stand it! And what if Don brings Mr Ingram back? He can’t stay here, there’s no room—’
‘Take him to the Rest Centre. Look, Dor, if this carries on, do you want me to look after her for a while? I mean, if she came to us.’
‘Don’t be daft. You’ve got enough to do. It’s not fair to expect Ted to be on his own with her. It’s bad enough for Don and Madeleine, and I’m here.’
‘Well, if you change your mind . . .’ Jenny glanced up at the kitchen clock.
‘It’s all right, dear,’ said Doris. ‘I’ll be fine. I was just being silly. You go on home. I’ve got the supper to get.’
‘If you’re sure. Only I’d better get back to the Rest Centre. I did leave them in the lurch a bit.’
Doris rose. ‘Course I’m sure. Come here.’ Rounding the table, she gave Jenny a hug. ‘Thanks, love.’
The only good thing about all this, Jenny reflected afterwards, was that it had stopped her worrying, for a whole three hours, about being pregnant. For the last few days she’d told herself that it was worry and being tired that was upsetting her system, or that she’d got the dates wrong, but now - today, in fact - there was no getting round the fact that she was one entire week late.
Twenty-Four
N
ot knowing whether Fay Marchant was still on duty, Stratton decided to leave visiting the Middlesex until the following day. It would nice to be home on time for a change even if Jenny wasn’t there.
ot knowing whether Fay Marchant was still on duty, Stratton decided to leave visiting the Middlesex until the following day. It would nice to be home on time for a change even if Jenny wasn’t there.
Walking up Lansdowne Road, Stratton was hailed by Donald coming the other way, with someone he did not recognise in tow. ‘I called for you,’ he said. ‘Fancy a drink? Mr Ingram and I were just on our way to the Swan.’
Stratton looked at Mr Ingram, wondering if he was all right, or even all there. Jenny had said he was aggressive, but he could see no evidence of this, unless one counted the fact that the little man had the look of a punch-drunk boxer (flea-weight) who was trying to rise to the occasion without knowing quite what the occasion was. Presumably, there’d been some further upset over his wife. ‘How do you do?’ he said, playing for time.
Donald, sensing hesitancy, grimaced at him over Mr Ingram’s head and telegraphed a ‘don’t-you-dare-let-me-down-you-fucker’ message with his eyes.
‘Why not?’ said Stratton.
The pub was full to bursting, as it often was nowadays at the beginning of the week before the beer ran out. The pea-soup haze of smoke in the place was even more acrid than usual and made Stratton’s eyes smart. Standing beside him in the crush at the bar, Donald managed, between securing and paying for three half-pints, to fill him in about the situation in a series of muttered asides. ‘Christ knows what I’m supposed to do,’ he finished. ‘I’m bloody glad you’re here because I haven’t a clue what to say to him.’
‘Neither have I,’ said Stratton. ‘But I hope Jenny and Doris have decided he is who he says he is, so they won’t be expecting me to interrogate the poor bastard.’
Donald responded to this by casting his eyes ceilingward in a ‘women, wouldn’t you know it?’ sort of way, and said, ‘And he’s AWOL. But I didn’t tell you that.’
‘No, you bloody well didn’t,’ said Stratton, grimly.
They stood in an awkward group with their drinks, and managed, by dint of finding common ground in Tottenham Hotspur, to avoid mentioning the subject of Mrs Ingram for a good ten minutes.
They were in the middle of a good-natured argument about borrowing players from other teams to make up the numbers, when Stratton received a clap on the back that was hard enough to propel him forward several inches, slopping his drink. ‘Look out!’
‘Oh, wonderful,’ Donald muttered, ‘bloody marvellous.’
Stratton’s heart sank. He’d been trying to keep an eye out, but what with the crowd and the smoke, it was impossible to see properly who was in the place. ‘Hello, Reg,’ he said, without turning round. Their brother-in-law bustled forward, elbowing him in the ribs. ‘What are you doing in here?’
‘Fancied a change. How’s the long arm of the law?’
‘It would be a bloody sight better without beer all over it,’ Stratton said, shortly.
‘Sorry about that.’ Seeing Mr Ingram, apparently for the first time, Reg added, ‘I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure . . .’
‘This is Mr Ingram,’ said Donald.
‘Aaah . . .’ said Reg, ‘aaah . . .’ Stratton gaped in disbelief as his brother-in-law closed one eye, inclined his head to one side, and regarded the little man as one might on encountering a problem while putting up shelves. At least, Stratton thought, having a pint in his hand, Reg couldn’t actually cross his arms.
‘Did you hear,’ Stratton began, in an attempt to head Reg off, ‘we’ve taken Caen. Monty’s army’s gone in and—’
He got no further. ‘Are you indeed?’ said Reg, loudly, to Mr Ingram. ‘Having some trouble at home, I hear?’
Stratton felt, rather than saw, the tremor go through Mr Ingram’s slight frame. Turning slightly, he saw the man’s Adam’s apple bob in a convulsive movement and his jaw clench, but Mr Ingram did not speak. Neither did Donald, who was glaring at Reg. Before Stratton could think of anything to say, Reg continued in the same, breezy tone, ‘Your missus staying at the Kerrs’, isn’t she?’
‘Yes,’ said Mr Ingram in a low voice, and stared miserably into his pint.
‘You shouldn’t worry too much,’ Reg said, apparently oblivious to the waves of hostility coming from Donald and Stratton, which had now reached a halitosis-like intensity. ‘They can do a lot with these mental cases now, you know. Learnt it from the last lot. I remember ...’
Do something, Stratton told himself. Hit him, knock the beer out of his hand, stamp on his foot, anything. Paralysed, he continued to glare at Reg, who, having assumed a professorial stance, was regaling Mr Ingram with a story about a man in his regiment in the Great War who had lost the use of his voice though shell shock. ‘So you see,’ he concluded, ‘with modern—’
Mr Ingram cleared his throat. Reg looked at him and held up the admonishing finger of one who is not yet ready for questions from the floor, and continued, ‘With modern methods, they can—’
‘I’m off,’ said Mr Ingram, abruptly. Thrusting his glass into Donald’s free hand, he said, ‘Got to find a place to kip.’
‘Why don’t you—’ began Stratton, but he’d already left them, dodging through the crowd like an eel.
After a loaded silence of about thirty seconds, Donald burst out, ‘What the hell were you playing at?’ Reg looked at him in hurt astonishment. ‘All that stuff about mental cases - what did you think you were doing?’
‘Just trying to be helpful, old man. No need to take it like that.’
‘Helpful!’ said Stratton. ‘Why didn’t you just come right out and tell him to buy her a straitjacket?’
‘There’s no need to be—’
‘Yes, there bloody is,’ said Donald. ‘I don’t believe you sometimes, Reg. I really don’t.’
‘All I meant was,’ said Reg, looking at the pair of them as if he was attempting to reason with two exceptionally backward children, ‘is that if these cases aren’t treated, they can become violent.’
‘Violent! You wouldn’t know this, because neither you nor Lilian have set foot in my house since she’s been there, but Elsie Ingram is a skinny little thing who wouldn’t say boo to a goose, and she’s about as likely to become violent as you are to . . . to . . .’ Here, Donald’s powers of invention failed him. Stratton, who could have supplied quite a lot of appropriate comparisons (buy a round, crack a joke that anyone finds funny, get through an evening without one of us wanting to knock your teeth out, and so on), said nothing, but nodded his head in agreement.
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