Last Act of All (6 page)

*

The pub smelled of stale beer, tobacco, and boiled cabbage, and the half-dozen men gathered round the bar viewed them with unconcealed hostility.

Neville
was in his element. Flashing notes, he bought drinks all round, addressed the silent man behind the bar as ‘landlord’, and with much jocularity ordered pork scratchings for himself and Helena, who shrank into a corner as far as possible from the bar.

When
at last, after an elaborate series of farewells, he tore himself away, she followed him to the car, wordless in her embarrassment and cold with shame.

‘
There you are — what did I tell you? The genuine article!’ Neville, driving away, was still high after his performance as the Man with the Common Touch.

‘
Neville, they were laughing at you.’

‘
What?’ A faint flush crept up his cheeks, and he shot her a resentful glance. ‘Words of wisdom from Helena Fielding, well-known expert on rural psychology and social classes C and D! Since you didn’t condescend to talk to them, you’re hardly qualified to comment.’

He
had not been unaware of the atmosphere, this time or on his previous visit; far from it. He wasn’t looking for simple-hearted, apple-cheeked villagers in a charming country pub; that was a folk-fiction he despised. The petty nastiness so evident in Radnesfield was, in his personal experience, a true reflection of human nature, and he believed himself now to be, like Harry, something of a connoisseur of its less pleasant manifestations.

Here
he had struck a rich and subtle lode, a situation ripe for mischief, ready for exploiting into real-life drama. Harry had always thrived on the open sores of imaginary existence; jaded now, Neville craved the stimulation of flesh-and-blood playthings. Here was rank soil in which the flowers of evil might flourish.

He
had felt like this before when he abandoned himself to the first stages of an affair. Common sense dictated he should draw back, but he was wantonly deaf to these promptings. There was a glorious exhilaration in being swept along, like going faster and faster down a ski-slope. The suspicion that the only stopping-place was in a crumpled heap right at the bottom didn’t help you resist the temptation to push off at the top. Well — Geronimo!

His
good mood restored, he drove on, humming under his breath.

They
collected Stephanie from a friend’s house on the way home to their Docklands flat. For her sake, they talked normally, but the atmosphere was heavy with unasked questions.

They
were clearing supper, with Stephanie tucked up in her pretty, chintzy bedroom, when Neville said, without preamble, ‘It said something to me, you know, that road, the signpost.’

She
shifted uncomfortably. She too had felt something of the stark attraction he talked about, but feeling it unhealthy, would not indulge the thought.

‘
Where does the opposite road go to?’ she asked, as if idly.

In
an instant, the clouds descended. He clenched his fists in a pantomime of furious frustration. ‘God, Helena, do you always have to do that? I’m only talking about an important moment of decision — important for all of us — standing literally at a crossroads, and you come out with some crass vapidity about the other road.’

He
glared at her, his face darkly suffused. Once she would have bowed under the onslaught, but experience had taught her that allowing him to lash himself into a rage led to the sort of violence she had no wish to endure again.

She
withdrew her gaze from him, as if he had suddenly ceased to interest her, becoming apparently engrossed in tidying the kitchen.

It
usually worked, this weapon of indifference, to the point where she sometimes felt guilty about making use of it. Neville’s desperate need was for an audience to act as mirror for himself; without one, he vanished.

Tonight
he came over to put his arm about her shoulders.

‘
Nella, darling Nella, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I’m a horrible person, and I don’t know why I shout at you when you’re the best wife I could have. Far too good for me.’

‘
Neville, you’re so stagey,’ she said in exasperation. ‘It’s all an act. You’re even acting now! We might as well be playing
Hay
Fever
— “say sorry to your wife in the manner of the word ‘engagingly’.” ’

He
grinned. ‘But I am engaging, aren’t I? Usually?’

She
sighed helplessly. ‘That’s the trouble. Most of the time, yes. Except when you’re Harry, and then you’re not engaging at all. You’re plain nasty.’

‘
Bad Harry. We’ll put him in the dustbin for the evening, shall we? There. Squash the lid down. Now I’m nice Neville, and you’re lovely Nella, and you’re pleased with me because I’m good now.’

He
drew her into his arms, and she didn’t resist. But as he bent his head to nuzzle her neck, she said seriously, ‘I’m worried about Radnesfield, Neville. I think it’s going to be Harry who lives there.’

He
raised his head, but did not turn to meet her eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Nella. I can’t explain, but somehow, I have to buy that house. It’s — it’s destiny, if you like. Kismet.’

‘
There you go, over-dramatizing again,’ she protested, but something about the way he said it sent chills down her spine. Harry was back again, like someone standing just at the edge of her vision, and in an uncharacteristically fanciful moment, she felt that they were the actors on his stage, being manipulated into position for a drama of which only he knew the denouement.

Chapter Three

He had done it again. She could kill him, preferably slowly. For the umpteenth time since they came to live in this godforsaken black hole, he had landed guests on her at an hour’s notice. A drinks party — well, thank you. Thank you very much.

She
could cope, of course. She had a freezer stacked by a local gourmet cook and a microwave; having sweated blood the first time he dumped her in it, that wasn’t going to happen again. But this was the symptom, not the disease.

The
little flame of anger flickered, then died. She had tried protesting, forcibly; his only reply had been some offensive flippancy about fish and chips. When she persisted, he had stared with cold, opaque eyes until she was frozen into foolish silence. Things were going wrong — badly wrong — and she didn’t know why.

At
first, the house had seethed with builders, joiners, plasterers, decorators, plumbers and electricians. She had studied shade cards and samples and swatches of fabric until she had spots before her eyes, and fell into bed at night to sleep the sleep of total exhaustion and dream of light fittings and bathroom taps.

Then,
suddenly, it was finished. The last painter brushed the last inch of the last wallpaper border into place and left, and a mind-numbing silence fell.

Stephanie
had started at boarding school. Neville, commuting to London for the series, was at home seldom, and seemed increasingly, and deliberately, remote. He stayed at his club or with Chris Dyer, and had insisted on selling the flat, a decision which, she suspected, had been designed to rob her of an excuse to join him.

Neville
had never before distanced himself like this. In the good times, they had been lovers; in the bad times, he had tried her patience like a child, and, like a mother, she had always indulged him. Now he was more like a rebellious teenager, inconsiderate, withdrawn and unpredictable.

She
had always believed that, as a consequence of his childhood, he had a need for mothering; now, for the first time, she questioned the wisdom of filling that role in the life of a man who must bear his own mother a festering psychological resentment. And once he had reached the independence of emotional adolescence, he might, not implausibly, seek revenge.

What
if — the thought transfixed her — the hidden agenda which she sensed, but could not discover, were her own destruction?

She
gave herself a mental shake. This was hardly the time for speculation more suited to melodrama than to real life. Real life was the tomato roses and lemon curls she was turning with practised hands and adding to the platters she had set out with her usual artistic flair.

The
results were impressive, for under an hour. But looking at them, she found her eyes misting. It wasn’t much to be proud of, not really. Not when there wasn’t anything else.

In
London she had never had to notice her own poverty of resources. There had been friends, and charity work, and the constant round of artistic and theatrical events, essential for keeping up illusions when absolutely none of it was happening to you.

He
had taken that away too. And now, in case she had any ideas about making friends in Radnesfield, he had begun throwing his weight around in a stand-up row with George Wagstaff up at Home Farm this afternoon.

She
had been giving tea to Edward Radley, on his first formal visit to see the house transformed when Neville came in, full of his latest bully’s triumph.

‘
Had the bloody nerve to send for me — cheeky sod — then tells me I have an obligation to make him official tenant of my farm, instead of manager. How do you like that?’

Helena
was bewildered. ‘What does he mean?’

‘
Mean? I’ll tell you what he means. That’s my farm, right? Paid for with my money, and by god, I’ve earned it. He’s my manager, and I pay him, and if I don’t like the job he does, I can fire him. It might cost me, but I can fire him. I’ve a damn good mind to do it. Told him this morning his stockyard was a tip, and it is, too.’

Edward
’s eyes were lowered unhappily, and Helena said feebly, ‘Oh dear.’ It didn’t take an agricultural expert to work out that Neville was unlikely to have useful advice for a man who had been in farming all his life.

‘
So this afternoon, he tells me the situation is “unsatisfactory”, if you please, and he’s going to get a lawyer to draw up a tenancy agreement. Prepared to offer very good terms, he says, and is dumb enough to suppose I’ll buy that.’

‘
Wouldn’t it be easier, in some ways?’ Helena suggested, not very hopefully.

‘
Easier for him, all right. That way, he gets rights over my property, so I couldn’t do anything with it, or get rid of him, and not only that, but his son could take it on without me being able to say a dicky-bird. He reckoned he was going to pull a fast one, but I set him straight. Oh, I set him straight, all right.’

He
was quieter now, and his dark blue eyes glittered as he moved to the hearthrug, the better to dominate his audience. Pure Harry, Helena registered with dismay.

‘
I told him he was manager, and he would stay manager just as long as I chose. Of course, if he wanted to quit, that was his choice.’

‘B
ut Neville, he’s lived there all his life!’ she cried, sensing an uneasy movement from Radley.

‘
So? He told me all that, then gave me a spiel about how it was only fair he should have what he called his rights. So I told him I’d heard more than enough, and I would phone this evening if I wanted him out by next month.’

He
paused in satisfied contemplation, then stooped to pick up a scone.

‘
I won’t, of course, but I’ve put the frighteners on him and there had better not be any more trouble. He’s a good manager, though, didn’t you find, Edward?’

It
was the first sign he had given of noticing the presence of the other man. Edward coloured, murmuring pacifically that he had always found him so.

‘
Perhaps I should have given him the tenancy. But I was always anxious to keep the land management intact.’

‘
Of course you were. Thoroughly prudent move.’ His rage, as usual, had blown over quickly. ‘Nella, you look ridiculous, sitting there clutching a teapot. Do I get a cup or don’t I?’

‘
Oh, of course.’

She
was pouring his tea when Neville said, with elaborate nonchalance, ‘By the way! I asked a few people in to drinks this evening — forgot to tell you.’

‘
You’ve — oh Neville, how many?’

‘
Just a few. You’ll stay, naturally, Edward, and Jack Daley from the garage with his wife, dear old Mr Tiggywinkle, I mean Tilson, the padre and his perfectly gruesome lady, the Morleys — is that all? Oh yes, and old Chris. He’s been so impressed with our rural existence that he’s down negotiating a lease on one of the cottages. Have to have a party to amuse old Chris.’

‘
I suppose he’ll be staying the night.’ Her voice was flat.

‘
Oooh, yes, I suppose he will.’ Neville was in high good humour now, stuffing a cake whole into his mouth, as if showing off to court disapproval. ‘I said to them all about six, anyway?’

It
was quarter to six now; she had met this challenge, but would challenges of the future merely become harder and harder, until he had the satisfaction of seeing her fail?

*

Jack Daley was whistling as he set the alarms and locked up the garage. Getting to be quite a snug little business, it was.

He
was a contented man, comfortable with the way his life was shaping. It had been a gamble, no two ways about that, throwing up a steady job as a mechanic in Birmingham and going in hock up to his neck to buy the garage here. Well, he’d been right, hadn’t he, and it had taken him less than two years to prove it.

Sandra
wasn’t so crazy about it. A real city girl, his Sandra, and Radnesfield wasn’t exactly the Bull Ring. But now he was doing well enough to take a bit out of the business, there were the clothes and the holidays they’d never been able to afford before; she liked that, and she’d come round to it. And it would be a good place for kids, when they decided to start a family.

Tonight
he had extra reason to be pleased with life. Sandra would be dead chuffed by the invitation — well, to be honest, he was chuffed himself. You didn’t get to meet famous TV stars when you were a mechanic in Brum, still less get invited back for drinks. Sandra would be over the moon. He’d just pop into the Feathers for a packet of fags, then go home and tell her the good news.

But
there was no such light-hearted atmosphere inside, where a huddle of men were united in concern around George Wagstaff, whose heightened colour suggested that the double whisky clamped in his fist was not his first.

‘
He’s going to pay for this, that I promise you,’ he was saying, with a belligerence only partially induced by alcohol. ‘And who the hell does he think he is, not been here five minutes when—’

Bill
Smith, the landlord, came to attend to his latest customer, and Jack raised an eyebrow.

‘
George is starting a bit early today, isn’t he?’

Smith,
never communicative, grunted, but his wife, a comfortable bosomy creature, came over from washing glasses to murmur an explanation.

But
Wagstaff had spotted him. ‘Jack! Jack! Come over here and help me drown my sorrows. What’s yours? I’m in the chair tonight – I may be out of a job by tomorrow.’

‘
No thanks, George, I’m not stopping. Just in for a packet of coffin nails.’

But
the farmer was not disposed to take no for an answer. ‘Come on, what have you got to do that’s so important you can’t stop for a pint? Sandra’s the last girl to grudge you ten minutes.’

This
was hardly the moment to announce his plans for the evening, and Jack hesitated. He wouldn’t be giving Sandra much time to get herself tarted up. But then Sandra always looked good; it was one of the things he liked about her, that he didn’t come home to a wife wearing bedroom slippers and no make-up. It shouldn’t take her a minute to run a comb through her hair, just for a spur-of-the-moment, casual drinks party.

‘
OK George,’ he conceded. ‘Just the one.’

*

Jennifer Morley appeared first, an old acquaintance from drama school days who had hailed their arrival only ten miles away with genuine delight. With undeflectable enthusiasm she appointed herself Helena’s social sponsor, decreeing simultaneously that Stephanie would adore boarding at Darnley Hall with her own Emily.

In
this, as in many things, she was absolutely right. One of Jennifer’s more disconcerting attributes was her ability to hit the nail squarely on the head, usually in public and without, as Helena had once observed feelingly, the smallest consideration for the feelings of the squirming nail.

‘
Neville, what fun!’ She kissed him on both cheeks, before sweeping him neatly out of the way to perform the same operation on his wife. ‘Helena, you are looking quite unfairly
soignée
. I do think it’s utterly disgusting — no one can say I don’t try, and Charles has the overdraft to prove it. Then you come and make me look like two bob’s worth of nothing at all. Doesn’t she, Charles?’

Her
husband, a stolid-looking man with a stoic smile, had entered almost unnoticed behind her. ‘Helena is looking delightful, as always. How are you, my dear?’

Helena
liked Charles, and smiled at him affectionately, asking about his beloved garden, while Jennifer pounced on Edward like a cat enjoying the serendipity of discovering a fieldmouse on the hearthrug.

‘
Edward, what a lovely surprise! You haven’t invited me to the Red House yet, you wicked man. But we’re free three days next week…’

Neville
was greeting the Daleys with great enthusiasm, Helena noticed, with a certain weary suspicion, though perhaps she was being unfair. Jack and Sandra were, after all, their nearest neighbours.

He
still had some of the big city ‘wide boy’ aura about him, which amused Helena by its incongruousness in this rural setting. Sandra, too, did not dress to suit her surroundings, appearing tonight in a short, straight red skirt with a tight-fitting matching blouse and city stilettos. She was pretty enough, but her blonde hair was brassy, and the bright lipstick on her small, discontented mouth did not perfectly match her clothes.

Neville
was chatting her up now, and although Jack was smiling proprietorially, as if taking credit for his taste in wives, Helena moved swiftly.

‘
Sandra, Jack, how nice to see you. Now, Sandra, who don’t you know?’

It
would be cruel to deliver her into Jennifer’s clutches, so, since she was still pinning Edward to the wall in one corner, that left Charles. At least she could rely on well-bred attentiveness from him.