Complete Short Stories (VMC) (94 page)

This Thursday morning, the young man, having mentioned her sister, and seen her distress, glanced at one of the needlework cushions, and rose for a moment to examine it. Having ascertained that it was her work (a brief, distracted nod), he praised it, and sat down again. Then, thinking the pause long enough, he said, ‘I am writing a book about your sister, and I did so hope for some help from you.’

‘How did you know?’ she managed to ask with her numbed lips. ‘That she was, I mean.’

He smiled modestly. ‘It was a matter of literary detection – my great hobby. My life’s work, I might say.’

He had small, even teeth, she noticed, glancing at him quickly. They glinted, like his spectacles, the buttons on his jacket and the signet ring on his hand. He was a hideously glinty young man, she decided, looking away again.

‘I have nothing to say of any interest.’

‘But anything you say will interest us.’

‘Us?’

‘Her admirers. The reading public. Well, the world at large.’ He shrugged.

‘The world at large’ was menacing, for it included this town where Mrs Mason lived. It included the Oak Beams Tea Room, and the Societies of Prevention.

‘I have nothing to say.’ She moved, as if she would rise.

‘Come! You had your childhoods together. We know about those only from the stories. The beautiful stories. That wonderful house by the sea.’

He looked at a few shelves of books beside him, and seemed disappointed. They were her late husband’s books about military history.

‘It wasn’t so wonderful,’ she said, for she disliked all exaggeration. ‘It was a quite ordinary, shabby house.’

‘Yes?’ he said softly, settling back in his chair and clasping his ladylike hands.

The shabby, ordinary house – the rectory – had a path between cornfields to the sea. On either side of it now were caravan sites. Her husband, Gerald, had taken her back there once when they were on holiday in Cornwall. He, of course, had been in the know. She had been upset about the caravans, and he had comforted her. She wished that he were here this morning to deal with this terrifying young man.

Of her childhood, she remembered – as one does – mostly the still hot afternoons, the cornflowers and thistles and scarlet pimpernels, the scratchy grass against her bare legs as they went down to the beach. Less clearly, she recalled evenings with shadows growing longer, and far-off sounding voices calling across the garden. She could see the picture of the house with windows open, and towels and bathing-costumes drying on upstairs sills and canvas shoes, newly whitened, drying too, in readiness for the next day’s tennis. It had all been so familiar and comforting; but her sister, Marion, had complained of dullness, had ungratefully chafed and rowed and rebelled – although using it all (twisting it) in later years to make a name for herself. It had never, never been as she had written of it. And she, Mrs Mason, the little Cassie of those books, had never been at all that kind of child. These more than forty years after, she still shied away from that description of her squatting and peeing into a rock-pool, in front of some little boys Marion had made up. ‘Cassie! Cassie!’ her sisters had cried, apparently, in consternation. But it was Marion herself who had done that, more like. There were a few stories she could have told about Marion, if she had been the one to expose them all to shame, she thought grimly. The rock-pool episode was nothing, really, compared with some of the other inventions – ‘experiments with sex’, as reviewers had described them at the time. It was as if her sister had been compelled to set her sick fancies against a background that she knew.

Watching Mrs Mason’s face slowly flushing all over to blend with her rouged cheekbones, the young man, leaning back easily, felt he had bided his time long enough. Something was obviously being stirred up. He said
gently – so that his words seemed to come to her like her own thoughts – ‘A few stories now, please. Was it a happy childhood?’

‘Yes. No. It was just an ordinary childhood.’

‘With such a genius among you? How
awfully
interesting!’

‘She was no different from any of the rest of us.’ But she
had
been, and so unpleasantly, as it turned out.

‘Really
extraordinarily
interesting.’ He allowed himself to lean forward a little, then, wondering if the slightest show of eagerness might silence her, he glanced about the room again. There were only two photographs – one of a long-ago bride and bridegroom, the other of a pompous-looking man with some sort of chain of office hanging on his breast.

It was proving very hard-going, this visit; but all the more of a challenge for that.

Mrs Mason, in her silvery-grey wool dress, suddenly seemed to him to resemble an enormous salmon. She even had a salmon shape – thick from the shoulders down and tapering away to surprisingly tiny, out-turned feet. He imagined trying to land her. She was demanding all the skill and tenacity he had. This was very pleasurable. Having let him in, and sat down, her good manners could find no way of getting rid of him. He was sure of that. Her good manners were the only encouraging thing, so far.

‘You know, you are really not at all what I expected,’ he said boldly, admiringly. ‘Not in the very least like your sister, are you?’

What he had expected was an older version of the famous photograph in the Collected Edition – that waif-like creature with the fly-away fringe and great dark eyes.

Mrs Mason now carefully lifted off her hat, as if it were a coronet. Then she touched her hair, pushing it up a little. ‘I was the pretty one,’ she did not say; but, feeling some explanation was asked for, told him what all the world knew. ‘My sister had poor health,’ she said. ‘Asthma and migraines, and so on. Lots of what we now call allergies. I never had more than a couple of days’ illness in my life.’ She remembered Marion always being fussed over – wheezing and puking and whining, or stamping her feet up and down in temper and frustration, causing scenes, a general rumpus at any given moment.

He longed to get inside her mind; for interesting things were going on there he guessed. Patience, he thought, regarding her. She was wearing opaque grey stockings; to hide varicose veins, he thought. He knew everything about women, and mentally unclothed her. In a leisurely fashion – since he would not hurry anything – he stripped off her peach-coloured slip and matching knickers, tugged her out of her sturdy corselette, whose straps had bitten deep into her plump shoulders, leaving a permanent indentation. He did not even jib at the massive, mottled flesh beneath, creased, as
it must be, from its rigid confinement, or the suspender imprints at the top of her tapering legs. Her navel would be full of talcum powder.

‘It was all so long ago. I don’t want to be reminded,’ she said simply.

‘Have you any photographs – holiday snapshots, for instance? I adore looking at old photographs.’

There was a boxful upstairs, faded sepia scenes of them all paddling – dresses tucked into bloomers – or picnicking, with sandwiches in hand, and feet out of focus. Her father, the Rector, had developed and printed the photographs himself, and they had not lasted well. ‘I don’t care to live in the past,’ was all she said in reply.

‘Were you and Marion close to one another?’

‘We were sisters,’ she said primly.

‘And you kept in touch? I should think that you enjoyed basking in the reflected glory.’ He knew that she had not kept in touch, and was sure by now that she had done no basking.

‘She went to live in Paris, as no doubt you know.’

Thank heavens, Mrs Mason had always thought, that she
had
gone to live in Paris, and that she herself had married and been able to change her name. Still quite young, and before the war, Marion had died. It was during Mr Mason’s year as Mayor. They had told no one.

‘Did you ever meet Godwin? Or any of that set?’

‘Of course not. My husband wouldn’t have had them in the house.’

The young man nodded.

Oh, that dreadful clique. She was ashamed to have it mentioned to her by someone of the opposite sex, a complete stranger. She had been embarrassed to speak of it to her own husband, who had been so extraordinarily kind and forgiving about everything connected with Marion. But that raffish life in Paris in the thirties! Her sister living with the man Godwin, or turn and turn about with others of her set. They all had switched from one partner to the other; sometimes – she clasped her hands together so tightly that her rings hurt her fingers – to others of the same sex. She knew about it; the world knew; no doubt her friends knew, although it was not the sort of thing they would have discussed. Books had been written about that Paris lot, as Mrs Mason thought of them, and their correspondence published. Godwin, and Miranda Braun, the painter, and Grant Opie, the American, who wrote obscene books; and many of the others. They were all notorious: that was Mrs Mason’s word for them.

‘I think she killed my father,’ she said in a low voice, almost as if she were talking to herself. ‘He fell ill, and did not seem to want to go on living. He would never have her name mentioned, or any of her books in the house. She sent him a copy of the first one – she had left home by then, and was living in London. He read some of it, then took it out to the incinerator in
the garden and burned it. I remember it now, his face was as white as a sheet.’

‘But
you
have read the books surely?’ he asked, playing her in gently.

She nodded, looking ashamed. ‘Yes, later, I did.’ A terrified curiosity had proved too strong to resist. And, reading, she had discovered a childhood she could hardly recognise, although it was all there: all the pieces were there, but shifted round as in a kaleidoscope. Worse came after the first book, the stories of their girlhood and growing up and falling in love. She, the Cassie of the books, had become a well-known character, with all her secrets laid bare; though they were really the secrets of Marion herself and not those of the youngest sister. The candour had caused a stir in those far-off days. During all the years of public interest, Mrs Mason had kept her silence, and lately had been able to bask indeed – in the neglect which had fallen upon her sister, as it falls upon most great writers at some period after their death. It was done with and laid to rest, she had thought – until this morning.

‘And you didn’t think much of them, I infer,’ the young man said.

She started, and looked confused. ‘Of what?’ she asked, drawing back, tightening his line.

‘Your sister’s stories.’

‘They weren’t true. We were well-brought-up girls.’

‘Your other sister died, too.’

He
had
been rooting about, she thought in dismay. ‘She died before all the scandal,’ Mrs Mason said grimly. ‘She was spared.’

The telephone rang in the hall, and she murmured politely and got up. He heard her, in a different, chatty voice, making arrangements and kind enquiries, actually laughing. She rang off presently, and then stood for a moment steadying herself. She peered into a glass and touched her hair again. Full of strength and resolution, she went back to the sitting-room and just caught him clipping a pen back into the inside of his jacket.

‘I’m afraid I shall have to get on with some jobs now,’ she said clearly, and remained standing.

He rose – had to – cursing the telephone for ringing, just when he was bringing her in so beautifully. ‘And you are sure you haven’t even one little photograph to lend me,’ he asked. ‘I would take enormous care of it.’

‘Yes, I am quite sure.’ She was like another woman now. She had been in touch with her own world, and had gained strength from it.

‘Then may I come to see you again when you are not so busy?’

‘Oh, no, I don’t think so.’ She put out an arm and held the door-handle. ‘I really don’t think there would be any point.’

He really felt himself that there would not be. Still looking greedily about him, he went into the hall towards the front door. He had the idea
of leaving his umbrella behind, so that he would have to return for it; but she firmly handed it to him. Even going down the path to the gate, he seemed to be glancing from side to side, as if memorising the names of flowers.

‘I said nothing, I said nothing,’ Mrs Mason kept telling herself, on her way that afternoon to play bridge. ‘I merely conveyed my disapproval.’ But she had a flustered feeling that her husband would not have agreed that she had done only that. And she guessed that the young man would easily make something of nothing. ‘She killed my father.’ She had said that. It would be in print, with her name attached to it. He had been clever to ferret her out, the menacing young man and now he had something new to offer to the world – herself. What else had she said, for heaven’s sake? She was walking uphill, and panted a little. She could not for the life of her remember if she had said any more. But, ah yes! How her father had put that book into the incinerator. Just like Hitler, some people would think. And her name and Marion’s would be linked together. Ex-Mayoress, and that rackety and lustful set. Some of her friends would be openly cool, others too kind, all of them shocked. They would discuss the matter behind her back. There were even those who would say they were ‘intrigued’ and ask questions.

Mrs Oldfellow, Mrs Fitch and Miss Christy all thought she played badly that afternoon, especially Mrs Oldfellow who was her partner. She did not stay for sherry when the bridge was over but excused herself, saying that she felt a cold coming on. Mrs Fitch’s offer to run her back in the car she refused, hoping that the fresh air might clear her head.

She walked home in her usual sedate way; but she could not rid herself of the horrible idea they were talking about her already.

The hallway, with its reception desk and hat-stand, was gloomy. Madame Bertail reached up to the board where the keys hung, took the one for room eight, and led the way upstairs. Her daughter picked up the heavier suitcase, and began to lurch lopsidedly across the hall with it until Leonard, blushing as he always (and understandably) did when he was obliged to speak French, insisted on taking it from her.