Find the Innocent (2 page)

No hope! She had mistaken the “6” for “8”. She wouldn't admit as much to WillyBee—because it would make him think she ought to wear glasses, which he would hate.

Everything seemed to be going wrong, this time. The frequency of his business trips contributed to her contentment, though she had hitherto made no illicit use of his absences. Ever since he had bought himself a helicopter he seemed to dodge about for the fun of it. She had no conception of the scope and magnitude of
WillyBee Products.

“WillyBee will wait dinner for me. I must get a taxi at once!” A silly thing to say in Diddington, even to herself.

In the village there was one sizeable garage. The garage hand, who was filling the tank of a Morris, informed her that the one car was not expected back before midnight.

In his driving mirror the owner of the Morris had seen the colouring as well as the outline.

“I'm on my way to Renchester,” he shouted and scrambled out. “May I give you a lift?”

Veronica thanked him magnificently and allowed him to help her into the Morris. A double turn and they entered the Peasebarrow Road.

As they drove on she tried to attend to his chatter, but soon her responses were mechanical, while her thoughts were bent on framing an explanation her husband would be likely to accept.

Her host was a hard-boiled commercial traveller who had reduced his relations with women to the formula: “If there's nothing doing, there's no harm done.”

It was Veronica's fault for not giving him proper attention. His preliminary patter, progressive in form, was fair warning for the most inexperienced. When his left hand strayed from the steering, her right had removed the ignition key. She got out, restored his key and turned her back until he had driven off.

The fastidious self-esteem had grounded her, with dressing-case, miles from anywhere. She was not distressed because she was confident that someone would come to her aid. Someone always did. In half an hour the confidence had vanished. She calculated—inaccurately—that there would be only an hour more of daylight. She would have to walk until she came to a house. Not just any house—a house with a telephone. She had not read the guide book, so did not know about the one, solitary human habitation.

Her shoes were not designed for walking on the Peasebarrow Road—nor was her nature. She was one of those in whom an abundance of money, so far from corrupting, stimulates the good qualities. With grace and some honesty, she practised most of the picturesque virtues. Taking her on her merits as a rich man's wife, she was as efficient as anybody in her husband's business. The daughter of a provincial art master with three children, she came from a home that was chronically hard up, but her dream life had been passed exclusively among the wealthy classes. She entered upon her marriage as an exile recalled.

In a very short time, the devices of shabby gentility became an indistinct memory. She was not extravagant, as might have been expected. Indeed, she was barely money conscious, taking no pleasure in the ritual of buying. Being rich by temperament, she was able to ignore money.

She trudged on, with growing petulance at WillyBee's behaviour. It was inconsiderate of him to come home suddenly in this furtive way. Keep it under her hair! She would have to catch an early train tomorrow back to their London flat to welcome Jill, his niece, who was coming to stay for a week of her holiday. From Edinburgh. Travelling by sleeper and arriving soon after breakfast. WillyBee never thought of things like that … She liked Jill in spite of the fact that she was one of those clever girls who earn a high salary.

Veronica had never imagined the countryside from the angle of a tramp—as something from which you could escape only by walking. She hated it. It was vast and monotonous. A meaningless little river reflected the beginning of sunset, dazzling her. Her hat—a minute summer straw trimmed with roses—was no protection. So she had to walk with her head turned sideways.

She came to rising ground with trees on both sides of the road (“the woods” of the guide book) which shut out the sunlight and brought the first feeling of fear. She had never spent a night in the open. Her dressing case, she discovered with surprise, was frightfully heavy.

A double turn brought her into the valley, where the road ran close beside the river. In the distance she could see a house—unless it was an illusion. The house appeared to have been built in the middle of the river—as indeed it had been. A smudgy column of smoke on the far side—then the echo of the tug's siren—helped her to guess that here was a lock and the lock-keeper's house.

Peasebarrow Lock—the lockhouse temporarily tenanted by three young men in a state of rebellion, who might have been placated by WillyBee if he had thought it worthwhile to stop.

Lyle Canvey, metallurgy, Arthur Stranack, mechanics, Rupert Eddis, chemistry, detested one another. This deep dislike was temperamental, admitted by each to be unjustified. They had not even the excuse of jealousy—each was proud of the others' achievements.

Their success as a unit of three had inflamed the dislike. Their talents happened to blend while their personal tastes remained in conflict. They were aware of this oddity. When circumstance forced them to live under the same roof for a few weeks they were alert to the danger of a serious quarrel. So they would snarl and snap, then retreat into an incredible heartiness—itself an added exasperation.

A temporary concord had been set up by the letter which had come by the late afternoon post—which was also the early morning post, as there was only one delivery—the letter which WillyBee himself had regretted.

“It took us four hours to cook up our letter,” said Canvey. He was a slender, wiry man, with thick sandy eyebrows. “It takes WillyBee four lines to say ‘Nerts' to us and our inventions.”

“‘For your inventive talents, which are not in dispute, you receive a salary,'” quoted Eddis.

“And some bilge about the resources of the company being at our disposal. Let's push his face in!” said Stranack, who had to live up to a somewhat tough-guy appearance, tempered by dark, intelligent eyes. “When does he get back from Madrid?”

“The Times
says he's having lunch with the Caudillo tomorrow—I cut it out,” answered Canvey. “So he may start for home any time after that. Give him a couple of days. How does that help us?”

“The team would appear to have over-rated itself,” said Eddis. “WillyBee doesn't care if he loses us.”

In the silence that followed all three flashed up the same idea. If the team amounted to so little, why should they burden themselves with its distasteful companionship?

“He can't lose us for four years,” said Canvey. “Do what our chairman tells you and read your contract.”

“Get your grandmother to read it and she'll tell you we're paid for routine, not for creative work.”

“What about the ‘special' we're doing now. I mean the cooker, not the twin-jack. If that does another half million—”

“WillyBee will pay us just what he's paid us for the conditioner.”

“The team must keep its temper with its kind employer.”

“That letter amounts to contemptuous treatment. If we had any guts—”

The discussion straggled on through late afternoon to evening. They became statistical. Each in turn addressed the others as if they were the board of directors. Nobody listened. Each was convinced that the other two had bungled the letter requesting payment of a royalty for inventions worked out after official hours. Each curbed his tongue, and remembered to be hearty. Soon they began to contradict each other over trifles. A triangular brawl was looming when a siren sounded on the river.

It was one of their four “regular customers”. The river traffic had fallen to less than that of the road. They had readily agreed that during the four weeks of their tenancy one of them would always be in the lockhouse to operate the lock.

“You're nearest, Lyle!” said Stranack.

“Why d'you think you have to tell me!” grunted Canvey.

As Canvey went out to operate the lock the tension eased. Any two could get along better in the absence of the third.

“Have you noticed that Lyle always sticks up for WillyBee?”

“Only when I run him down.”

“He said he would get the Ford done, but he hasn't. The wing doesn't matter, but the rear window creates a draught. Surly sort of bloke, when you get to know him!”

Stranack picked up the rest of his mail—a bill, two circulars and
The Prattler.
He tore the wrapping of the glossy.

“It's four weeks since they sent those chaps to interview WillyBee. It ought to be in this week, unless they've found out his name stinks. We're sure to be mentioned. ‘First let me say that the success of the WillyBee Portable Air Conditioner is entirely due to three men who'—Good Lord, here he is!—patting his own dear little helicopter! Two pages of it!”

Eddis looked over his shoulder.

“What's the girl for?”

“Something you'll understand when you're older. The reading under the picture, dear, says she's Mrs. William Brengast.”

“That's a shock! I didn't know men like WillyBee were allowed to marry. This girl must be a misprint for his daughter.”

“She'd be a pin-up for the troops but for all those clothes.”

Eddis glanced at the letterpress and found it unilluminating. He stood by the window, gloomily watching Canvey flood the lock. Stranack continued to gaze at the photograph.

“There's something about those eyes that betokens experience,” babbled Stranack. “Perhaps she is why WillyBee is like that!”

“If we could get a lawyer to read our contract—one of those brutal lawyers, with a genius for insult—he might find a loophole.”

When Canvey returned, the discussion started afresh. This time it was Eddis who rebelled.

“And what do we intend to do about it? We intend to talk about it to each other.”

“Why don't we run into Renchester and take away all the stuff we've piled up for the cooker?” cried Stranack. “It's our own—morally. If the cooker is as good as we think it may be, we could plant it with another company. On a royalty basis—full royalty!”

“Legally, WillyBee is on velvet,” warned Canvey. “There's no doubt that our salary—”

“Let him sue us—and bring himself into public odium! What about Renchester—at once! Rupert is right. If we don't do it at once we shall talk about it all our lives.”

“I'm ready to chance it,” conceded Canvey.

“If we come unstuck,” urged Stranack, “it'll be worth it as a protest. It's not nine yet—we could be back before midnight, if the Ford behaves itself.”

“Whose turn is it for lock duty tonight?” asked Eddis.

“Jigger that!” said Stranack. “This is a big occasion. Toss odd man out for keeping the lock.”

The three men smacked their coins on the table.

Less than half a mile from the lockhouse, Veronica could see two men crossing the road to a shed-like structure. It was some relief to be assured that humanity was not so far off. She set down the dressing case and eased the hand that was stiff and numbed, removing the glove.

She saw a car come out of the structure and turn in the direction of Renchester. If she had not wasted time waiting for a lift she might have been in that car.

She trudged on, her eyes on the lockhouse. The crisis had passed—WillyBee would no longer be waiting dinner for her. The black mood was giving way to one of self-satisfaction. Marooned in the wilds, she had not panicked. She had walked miles and miles (later discovered to be a mile and three quarters) and was still able to carry a heavy dressing case. She made the last hundred yards at a very creditable pace.

The house was both larger and uglier than seemed necessary. The architecture, if any, was of the Victorian Railway school—grey brick with a litter of gables. It stood on a natural island, reinforced and turned into a peninsular by a block of concrete, which served also as a bridgeway.

A ramp from the road gave on to a tarred strip leading to a front door without bell or knocker. After thumping it a little, Veronica followed the tarred strip round the house and came upon the lock and weir and a view over the valley.

A side door was propped open with a drain-pipe umbrella-stand. She knocked with her knuckles, without result, then put down her dressing case and entered a wide passage that smelt of floorcloth.

“Is anyone at home?” she called.

Plainly, nobody was at home. Veronica had noted the telephone wire and was not unduly concerned. She opened an inner door and entered the sitting-room.

For a moment the room itself held her attention. Over the coal grate was an overmantel—a large looking-glass, flanked with brackets. Two armchairs upholstered in a substance she took to be carpet; upright chairs and a sofa of the same suite; a massive sideboard also fitted with looking-glass and brackets; a dining table that looked as if it would bear a ton of coals without creaking. On the walls faded prints speckled with damp, depicting royal occasions. There was no bookcase but there were books on the floor, held upright against the skirting board with a wading boot for a book-end. On the wall near the door two desk-like contraptions had been fitted: one contained an open book that looked like a ledger and on the other was the telephone.

She was moving towards the telephone when she heard a footstep. A man came into the room smiling, carrying the suitcase she had left outside.

She had intended to make a dignified apology for her intrusion and ask permission to telephone for a car. But she lost her intention. Lock-keepers, she had supposed, were grizzled ex-sailors eking out their pensions. This man could be little more than her own age. He was not a bit like a lock-keeper—there came to her the odd thought that he was not a bit like any man she had met. She decided to say “good evening” as one said it to a social acquaintance, but she said: