I Shall Not Want (24 page)

ii

When John Marco had locked up—he was the last away as usual: Mr. Hackbridge had left about five-thirty and was already seated in the lounge of the William the Fourth—he walked back to Clarence Gardens with the slow steps of a man who is not anxious to reach his home.

Once inside that massive front door he would belong to Hesther again. Her arms would go round his neck and old Mrs. Marco, watchful and apprehensive as ever, would rub her hands and look at them through eyes filled with tears to think that this fragile, ominous marriage
had turned out so auspiciously after all. For Hesther made no secret of her victory. Her husband was the whole of her life now; the very centre and reason of it. She dressed to please him; did her hair to please him, spending hours before her mirror sleeking the dark heavy tresses first to one side of her head and then to the other, like a debutante; she even wore jewellery to please him despite the fact that all Amosite ministers, from the original Mr. Sturger onwards, had preached against the stuff. During the last month in particular her devotion to him had been more patent than ever. If he were so much as ten minutes late in the evenings she would be at the window as anxious and impatient as a new bride, watching for him.

He turned in at the gate, trying not to think of the kiss full on the lips which she would give him as soon as he got in. The house had not changed much since Mr. Trackett's departure; his ghost could still have wandered downstairs in the dark, crimson-papered hall and have felt at home there. For every time when Hesther had suggested that they should disperse the ghosts and have the stucco painted and the walls of the rooms re-papered, he had dissuaded her; he spoke of their capital, of the fortune that Mr. Trackett had left her, as something sacred that had to be guarded and cherished—rather in fact as Mr. Trackett himself had spoken of it. And Hesther, who while her uncle was alive, had looked forward to his death as the signal for a sudden ecstasy of spending, had at last abandoned the hope and found herself still twisting the rugs in the drawing-room this way and that in an effort to cover up the bare patches in the carpet, and going down to the kitchen to make sure that Emmy was not wasting their money below stairs.

But there was no Hesther in the hall to-night; John Marco closed the heavy door behind him, and stood for a moment in the half light that drifted in through the stained glass panels. There was the sound of voices coming from the drawing-room and as he opened the door, it was Mr. Tuke's voice that he heard.

“The reward of waiting,” he was saying. “What infinite richness.”

Old Mrs. Marco was sitting beside him. And they were holding hands. John Marco paused: it was obvious that he had intruded on one of Mr. Tuke's professional moments. But whatever it was, Mrs. Marco wanted him to share it. She came running up to him and threw her arms round his neck.

“Oh son, son,” she said. “I'm so happy.”

“Wonderful, indeed,” Mr. Tuke repeated, getting up. “You should be a happy man, Mr. Marco. God has indeed been generous.”

He spoke with more than a trace of bitterness in his voice. The man was a sinner: he stank. But this perhaps was
His
inscrutable way of saving him.

John Marco stood staring at them.

“It's Hesther,” old Mrs. Marco explained. “She's just told us.”

But Mr. Tuke shook his head.

“No, no,” he said. “This is sacred. He must hear it from his wife's lips. We must not presume because we have been privileged.”

“That's right,” Mrs. Marco agreed eagerly. “Go upstairs and ask her.”

Mr. Tuke placed his hand on John Marco's shoulder and almost thrust him out of his own drawing-room.

“She's waiting for you,” he said. “She has news.”

It was dark in the bedroom. Hesther was lying there, the blinds drawn. She called to him and, when he came over to her, she put her arms round him and pulled him towards her.

“It's happened,” she said. “I saw the doctor this afternoon. Your mother went with me.”

“You mean that you're going to have a child?”

She thrust up her arms trying to pull him down closer.

“It's the third month,” she said. “I didn't tell you before. I wanted to be certain.”

He looked down at her. There were dark lines under her eyes as though she had been sleepless. Her whole face was
drawn and tired looking. In a way she looked older; but she looked happy too. He could see in the shadows that she was smiling up at him.

He paused.

“Do you remember your promise?” he said at last.

“What promise?”

“That if you had a child you'd give me the money?”

She did not answer. Instead, she unfastened her arms and covered her face with her hands. She was crying now.

“Is that all you have to say?” she asked. “Aren't you happy, too? Don't you love me at all? Don't you even want to kiss me?”

She turned her back on him and burying her head on her arm she lay there weeping. When at last he bent over she thrust him away from her.

iii

That same evening John Marco left the house in Clarence Gardens and turned in the direction of Lancaster Gate. He was excited and strode through the streets with his head held high. His whole future seemed to be in his pocket and, as he walked, it jangled like a bunch of keys.

Miss Foxell came down immediately when she heard that there was a gentleman to see her. At the sight of John Marco, however, she paused abruptly.

“Nothing wrong, is there?” she asked. “Nothing's happened to the shop?”

Her mind was filled with sudden terrors of fire and lapsed insurances; she saw the legacy, the fortune, everything, vanishing in vast clouds of terrifying smoke. And then she remembered that Mr. Hackbridge had assured her that the fire policy was all in order: she had been tormented by that fear before. Perhaps it was Mr. Hack-bridge himself. Had something happened to her one link with everything that Mr. Morgan had left her?

“Not Mr. Hackbridge,” she said, still in the same breath. “Not poor . . .?”

In her present mood of excitement and anxiety she looked very fragile and appealing. Her eyes, bright cornflower blue under their dark lashes, were agitated and shining.

But John Marco came straight to the point of his visit. He ignored her charms.

“I understand that you want an offer for the business,” he said. “I've come to make you one.”

“The business. Oh yes, the business.”

Miss Foxell's white hands fluttered across her bosom. She felt perplexed and confused. Here at last was the offer that she had been waiting for, praying for. But it had come to her in a way in which she had least expected it—from her own shop-walker in fact. And he was so strange in his manner: he didn't treat her as if she were a woman at all.

“Are you ready to discuss it?” he asked.

Miss Foxell smiled.

“Well, we can't talk about it down here if that's what you mean,” she replied: she was recovering herself more and more every moment. “Come upstairs and tell me about yourself.”

They went into the resident's lounge of the Almeira where the palms drooped sub-tropically out of their bright brass bowls—the Almeira was of the best class—and the light filtered discreetly in through the varnish-papered windows. Miss Foxell led him towards one of the little bamboo and wicker couches with which the place was furnished.

“This is a nice surprise,” she said. “Sit down and tell me all about it, Mr. ...”

“Marco,” he told her.

She caught her breath, and her handkerchief fell unnoticed to the floor.

“How silly of me,” she replied. “I shall be forgetting my own name next. And Mr. Hackbridge was only talking about you the other night.” She paused. “It wasn't Mr. Hackbridge who sent you was it?”

Was he going to notice her handkerchief? she wondered.

John Marco narrowed his eyes until Miss Foxell looked blurred and distant, not radiant and animated and on the couch beside him.

“You haven't had many offers, have you?” he began.

She was defensive immediately.

“There were some very good enquiries,” she said.

“But they came to nothing,” he reminded her. “They were withdrawn before you had time to accept them.”

“They weren't good enough,” she answered. “I wasn't sorry to see them withdrawn.”

“They were more than you'll ever get for it now,” he told her brutally.

Miss Foxell folded her hands in her lap. Her small chin was set into a hard, square line and her eyes had lost some of that dewy freshness which the Old Gentleman had noticed when he first saw her.

“Hurry up and tell me what's on your mind, Mr. Marco,” she said. “Perhaps we're just wasting each other's time.”

John Marco smiled. He picked up the handkerchief and put it on the couch beside her.

“I've come to offer you three thousand pounds for it, just as it stands,” he said.

“Three thousand pounds.” She showed the whites of her eyes in horror. “Seven thousand is the price.”

“It's ready money,” he answered.

She shook her head.

“I couldn't look at it,” she said. “What would the agents think?”

“They'd be glad to get their commission,” he replied. “It's been on the market a long time now remember.”

She got up and rang the bell.

“Will you join me in a little drink?” she asked. “What about a nice glass of port?”

John Marco shook his head.

“I'm an Amosite,” he said.

Miss Foxell gave her little social smile.

“I remember now,” she said. “So was Mr. Morgan. I'm Church of England myself.” There was a pause while they waited for a maid to come and Miss Foxell went through a brief crisis of indecision. “Some gentlemen don't like seeing a lady drink if they're not drinking themselves,” she said.

But John Marco solved the problem for her. When the maid came in he addressed her himself.

“The lady wants a port,” he said. “Just one.”

Miss Foxell smiled.

“You certainly know your own mind, all right,” she said. She moved up a little nearer to him on the couch. “Is three thousand all you've got?”

“Three thousand is all I'm offering,” he corrected her.

She remained silent for a moment and then an idea came to her.

“Why not three thousand for a half share?” she asked. “Why not you and me together?”

“I offered you three thousand for the whole business,” John Marco answered. “I'm not interested in half shares.”

But Miss Foxell was crying. The strain of bargaining with a man stronger than herself had been too much for her and her shoulders were shaking. She found herself at a disadvantage, however, with no handkerchief. And despite the fact that she kept indicating it with the toe of her shoe John Marco seemed incapable of noticing it a second time. In the end, she bent down and recovered it herself.

“It's so difficult for me,” she said in between the sobs. “I'm only an inexperienced woman and you're a man of the world.”

“I'll deal through the agents if you'd rather I did,” John Marco answered.

The reply served to rouse her: she began patting at her hair.

“Why did you come here at all?” she asked. “It isn't regular you know. Did you want to come and see me?”

“I came because I wanted everything fixed up to-night,” he answered.

Miss Foxell disregarded the snub. There was the light of admiration in her eyes.

“If only I'd met you before,” she said. “I can see I've just been wasting my time with Mr. Hackbridge.”

“Are you going to accept?” he asked.

She allowed her hand to droop until it was resting against his.

“I'll let you know in the morning,” she promised.

But John Marco had already risen from his seat beside her.

“I'll give you until ten o'clock,” he said.

Miss Foxell smiled up at him.

“Don't go for a minute,” she pleaded. “We haven't finished.” Her eyes were big and abnormally alive; the tiny mouth was quivering. “You can come up to my room,” she added quietly. “We shall be quite alone there.”

John Marco felt a sudden weakness run through him. Now that he was standing over her she seemed surprisingly small, small and pathetically deserted. The back of her neck was white and slender like a girl's and the hair ran in soft, sweeping waves.

Miss Foxell was holding out her hand to him. “It's only just up the first flight,” she was saying.

His heart now was faster: he was in the pride of his strength. He met her eyes and saw the invitation that was there. Then he noticed her hand and stopped himself abruptly: one finger—the smallest one—was separate from all the others, raised in a little tantalising arc. Mary's finger had been raised in just that way on the first day when he had gone back home with her: the raised finger and the silver tea-pot were imprinted on his memory for ever. And with the memory of the finger came the memory of Mary as well. Her features imposed themselves for a moment on the smiling face of Miss Foxell and when they dissolved again Miss Foxell's face no longer looked as girlish and enticing: it was the eager, greedy face of a
middle-aged woman who is snatching at something which every minute of life is taking away from her; the face of someone who keeps dropping her handkerchief and has an empty port-glass on the table at her side.

“Aren't you coming?”

But he only shook his head.

“You can give me your answer in the morning,” he said. “You can sleep on it and let me know.”

With that he picked up his hat and stick from the chair beside him and went down the broad staircase without even pausing to say good-bye.

The front of the house was in darkness when he got back; it looked cold and lifeless as he approached. But in Hesther's room the light was still burning; a pale, daffodil-coloured slit shone out across the corridor from beneath the door. He groped his way upstairs towards it.