Holiday (16 page)

‘And what’s the idea?’ He used the same steely tone to a fractious middle-school form.

‘You arrogant bastard,’ she said.

‘Listen.’

‘You listen, your fucking self,’ she shouted.

He glared at her, blood pounding in his head, cheeks burning but stiff as ice, lips trembling. Her mouth opened and shut, not widely, wordlessly. Her fists were clenched dull white, her face drained, twisted unfamiliarly. Now his body shook, vibrated with anger, but it turned inwards, against itself, as if nerve revelled against wild nerve, sinew with sinew. He stared, not blindly, but into a landscape without perspective before he forced himself to turn his back on her, open the door and walk into the scullery. Even as he did so, he felt his neck, his shoulders wince as at some missile, smashing through the closed door, felling him. He sat, confused, sickened, stomach weak with fright for some minutes before he filled the kettle.

He made his cup of instant coffee, but drank it there, slowly swilled and dried the crockery.

Usually he cleaned his shoes last thing at night, but he had left them by his chair in the dining room. As he returned, he lacked all strength, limbs burdened, his gait unsteady. Still she stood, but he did not look at her, picked up his shoes, retreated. The exercise of polishing, Arthur had taught him that pride in this work, did him good so that he packed the tin, the two brushes, the small velvet pad away, he knew he must speak to her. He considered the matter, then the words; made his mind up and rehearsed procedure.

Now he went in, stood back to the door.

‘I’m sorry, Meg. I thought you knew.’

‘Thought,’ she said. ‘Are you capable of thought?’

That did not displease him; a sarcastic question spelt some steadiness. In her case she now copied Father David.

‘Not often,’ he said, smiling sadly, conveniently.

‘You’re not fit to be a member of the human race.’

This sounded so ridiculously that he glanced up in the hope that she had now dissipated her resentment in this parody of anger.

‘Probably.’

‘Probably,’ she mimicked. ‘Probably. You stuck pig.’

‘And all that. I’m going to bed. You can please yourself.’

‘You dangling, ugly excresence.’

‘Not very good,’ he said. ‘Bed’.

As he moved past her, she struck him, not hard, almost playfully on the upper arm. He grabbed the lapel of her gown, tugged her so that she staggered across him and landed stumbling over the table. Without haste, when he knew she was unhurt, he quitted the room.

Upstairs he sat without breath on his bed listening. Not a sound. Now he wound the two clocks, checked the alarm, and undressed. As casually as he could, for he knew he’d not sleep, he climbed into bed. Meg had squared these clothes, made sure the coverlet stretched creaseless, the pillow plumped comfortably.

From below, a shriek slewed.

He sat, straight in a strait-jacket of fear.

Now the house was thumped by heavy blows, as if someone beat a carpet violently but with lengthy rests between the thuds. He could not understand what she did, but imagined her standing with a broom thwacking the leather back of the new settee. The whole bloody neighbourhood would hear the performance; at eleven at night; through these thin walls their semi-detached privacy was small. Out of bed, dragging on his dressing-gown, he hesitated, agitating himself round the floor, not daring to go down.

She was quiet; the cannonade had done.

Cold, he wished he smoked, he made ungainly but without noise for the stairs. He opened the dining-room door.

The light burnt still, but the air smelt thick with dust. The settee and the two arm-chairs were overturned, as was the table. She’d snatched some books from one of the chimney shelves and hurled them about the floor. A mere dozen, a score, bright wrappers intact, they made a pitiful scatter. The television, the radio were untouched, as were the tradescantia in its basket, the ugly Renoir reproduction ‘La Loge’ the china cabinet, the photograph of her father and mother.

The scullery door gaped.

Meg leaned over the sink. For the minute he thought she vomited, but she did not stir.

‘Come on to bed, love,’ he’d called. She did not answer; he expected nothing, but he took her by the arm. Now, the violent wrench, the obscene abuse, the pummelling of her fists. Nothing. With docility she allowed him to lead her out into the wrecked room where she made a large, weary gesture which he understood easily.

‘When I’ve got you in bed, I’ll square it up.’ he promised.

They had difficulty mounting the narrow stairs together, but they made allowances, stumbled generously. She crept into bed, did not speak, or cry or cover her face, but lay down, easily, when he ordered it, pulled the sheets up to her face like a pampered child. He bent, kissed her, received no response and tiptoed downstairs.

The cleaning took longer than he anticipated, but he enjoyed the work, took care to sweep with the Ewbank, to dust flat surfaces. He expiated thus a guilt he ought not to feel, but when he returned purged, she was asleep, neither shifted nor sighed as he entered the bed.

Awake, untidy in his mind, he did not touch her.

Mid-morning performance at the Frankland at half-eleven. A young man on the desk phoned the Vernons’ room, asked Fisher to sit, and on appraisal of his suit mentioned the adequacy of the holiday weather.

Vernon joined his son-in-law on the out-of-the-way sofa he’d chosen. The older man had not shaved, nor brushed his hair into any shape of tidiness. He soured his mouth, glumly creased his expensive jacket. No inquiries were made about coffee or drinks.

‘What did she say?’ Fisher began.

‘Precious little.’

‘Do you mind my hearing that then?’

‘She made a start. Got as far as Grantham. Felt afraid. Turned back. Was at home sitting about, all of a shake, when I rang at four. Had had no lunch.’

‘Why,’ Fisher pressed, ‘was she so scared?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t know if her story’s true. She may well have realised that she’d gone further than she intended when she agreed to meet us.’

‘Why would that be?’

‘You’re just as capable as I am of guessing the answer, answers to that.’

‘Do you honestly think she set out?’ Fisher asked.

‘She said so.’

‘That’s not what I asked.’

‘How can I be sure?’

They traversed this ground once or twice more until each felt sorry for the other. No enlightenment; that became obvious. Fisher concentrated on his father-in-law who had been cheerful earlier on the phone, and now spoke sullenly, shifted about in discomfort.

‘May I ask you something?’

Vernon looked up with a grin, a touch of devil, then, courtly, waved Fisher on.

‘Why are you so uncertain now, David?’

He rarely called the older man by his Christian name although he’d been invited often enough to do so.

‘Am I?’ He didn’t want information; he spoke like a convict recaptured.

‘Has,’ Fisher pointed up, ‘Mama been on to you?’

‘Not really. She wants to rush back. She has her little weep. No, it’s the other one I’m upset about.’

‘To the extent of not shaving?’

‘Oh, I see. You think I’ve been so busy administering sal volatile and soft soap to Irene that I’ve not had the time for this.’ He rasped his bristles. ‘No. Part of the holiday.’

‘I like Irene,’ Fisher said, off target, deliberately oblique.

‘Good, good. No, Meg sounded dull but sensible enough. That’s what I didn’t like. She had the sense to turn round.’

‘I don’t get you.’

‘No. I don’t know myself. You see, I thought we might meet and speak. Nothing miraculous, but the talk would be the beginning.’

‘She sent this card. It’s an apology.’

He passed it across. Vernon spent more time on the picture than on the few words.

‘She’d realise you’d be shaken. She’s not without imagination, would you say?’

‘I never knew.’

‘No. One doesn’t. One doesn’t. She could play the bastard, I expect. But I see her as a child, still. It’s not so long ago to me since we wheeled her out in that war-time pram. On my leaves. I can remember her as a quiet dependent.’

‘She needed a dozen husbands,’ Fisher said.

‘Sexually?’

‘No. Not there. That’s one place where we were matched. Bed. No. They all say that, I suppose. Nobody admits inadequacy there.’

‘You’d be surprised.’

‘Oh.’

‘She was sane enough, do you think?’

‘Why do you ask that?’ Fisher was unquiet.

‘Don’t know, don’t know. You ought . . . Oh, God, Edwin. She’s a monster.’ He laughed, then, as if at some recondite allusion.

‘Come on then. What d’you suggest?’

‘If I knew that I’d tell you.’

‘Shall I ring her?’

‘Do you want to?’

‘Not particularly. I’m the sort to let it drift.’

‘But willing to stir the mud from time to time?’ Now Vernon was expansive.

‘Well, yes.’

Vernon reached inside his collar, scratching his hairy neck.

‘We’re not getting anywhere, Edwin, while we talk like this. We need Meg here, herself, irrational as she likes. At least she’d see us, that we haven’t smoke coming out of our ears. She lives in unreality, that girl.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Fisher said.

‘Let’s hear.’ Fisher’s yawn concealed no boredom.

‘She’s had it rough. Nothing’s come up to standard. And then, to top it, Donald dies. God knows she was unsteady enough before that. Now she must be twisted.’

‘It’s over a year. Nearly eighteen months. That’s time for recovery.’

‘Depends what form recovery takes. Hers perhaps included ditching Donnie’s father.’

‘Won’t do. Won’t do. Makes no sense. It’s as if you said she left you because she didn’t like the wallpaper in your dining-room. I don’t believe it. It fits with nothing.’

‘You don’t want to . . .’

‘Don’t, won’t, in, out. I don’t know, Edwin, but that one doesn’t satisfy.’

They sat, moving their hands, extracting handkerchiefs, feeling money, adjusting dress.

‘What’s Irene say?’ Fisher began.

‘Seems on your side, if anything. Thinks Meg’s obstinate. But she doesn’t consider a wife should leave her husband.’

‘Even with provocation?’

Vernon nodded, deeply, as at profound truth.

‘Will she talk with Meg?’ Fisher started again.

Vernon’s head moved largely sideways.

‘She’s never been up to her, you know. When Meg was small she’d beat her mother. Irene has one or two ideas or preconceptions or prejudices to suit every situation. And she’s not to be moved from them. She can be angry, or hurt, but not convinced.’ He sighed, whistling loud, and slapped his fleshy ribs. ‘That’s a bloody daft thing to say. As if a sentence can sum a woman up. Even one’s own wife.’

‘I know what you mean.’

‘More than I do.’ He acted out a coughing fit. ‘Meg once stole two pounds out of her mother’s purse. Did you . . .?’

Fisher shook his head.

‘She’d be fifteen, fourteen. I don’t know. She needed money for shopping, but there was nobody about, so she helped herself. She’d only to ask, mind you, but there was nobody in the house. And Irene’s like some little old-age pensioner with her purse. Weighed to a farthing. So she accuses our bright young lady, who’s come back in a paddy because she could not get what she wanted and she denies it.’ He coughed again. Drily, this time, near choking. ‘Classical situation.’

‘What happened?’

‘It was like that poem of Wordsworth’s about the weathercock, weathervane. Taught her to lie. They were flying at each other’s throats in no time. Meg slams out, locks herself in her bedroom, and when I get back home Irene’s broken down, near hysterics.’ Vernon took a handkerchief, shook it loose, mopped his face, blew his noise violently. ‘She screamed at me, ordered me to go upstairs and sort Meg out. Oh, I sat her down. Got the details. Then we had a cup of tea. You never heard such a ta-ta.’

‘And you were calm, man of the law?’ Fisher asked facetiously.

‘Of course. All this stuff about the cleaning woman being suspected didn’t mean anything. Nor did two pounds. She was frightened that it would be five pounds next time, then ten, then forging cheques. You see? And lying. Flat denials. Never be able to believe the girl again.’

‘What did Meg say?’

‘That she hadn’t taken anything.’

‘Did you believe her?’ Fisher asked, objectively, as if he did not know the protagonists.

‘No.’

‘So what happened?’

‘I told Meg I believed her. That did nothing. She’d buttoned herself up by then. I told Irene I’d done my best and that Meg denied it and I’d no option but to believe her. She wasn’t pleased, but she was over it in a day or two.’

‘And what’s the moral?’

‘Don’t plead guilty unless proof’s overwhelming.’ Vernon grinned, pulled his face about, rasped his chin along his collar. ‘I think Irene flew off the handle and frightened Meg, who’s obstinate. That was that. The child was bursting, I guarantee, to hand that money over. She’s very generous. I’d bet she’d give it to Oxfam or the missionary society or some charity.’

‘But?’ Fisher appeared portentous.

‘She wasn’t to be shown up by her mother. That’s why I don’t put much faith in Irene in this matter. Let’s say the relation is coloured.’

‘By this?’

‘Of course. And similar . . .’

‘This is fifteen years ago.’ Fisher sounded incredulous.

‘None the less.’

‘She was only a child.’

‘She won’t forget, Edwin, I can tell you that.’

‘You mean you won’t. You’ve not forgotten it.’

‘Your word, Edwin, your opinion against mine. But if it comes to some really serious matter I don’t think Irene and Margaret are capable of sorting it out between them.’

‘On account of one row? All that time back? Not possible?’

‘All things start. In a small way.’ Vernon spelt it out. He sounded like a parent reciting a nursery rhyme to a baby without language.

‘Well,’ Fisher chided. ‘And how did you come out of the fracas? It made no difference to your relationship with the girl?’

‘I’m sure it did. At that stage kids don’t see straight. She might have thought me a fool for believing her. Or an idiot for not seeing through her denials. But either way I was sympathetic. And that’s what counts.’