Sunday Best (25 page)

‘A pleasant man,' Mrs Whitely offered, more to her daughter-in-law than to the other woman. She felt it
inadvisable to speak badly of the man. He might sense it, and give them news to spite them. ‘He seems very serious to me. I, for one, am prepared to go by what he says.'

This declaration seemed to silence them all. The woman opened her holdall, and took out a packet of sandwiches. She was used to this kind of thing. Waiting in waiting-rooms, if not for people-diviners, then for fortune-tellers and the like. And in fact, she volunteered some information of the latter after her snack, and before the resumption of her chewing. ‘I went to a fortune-teller once,' she said. ‘Told me I'd be married again within the year. That was two years ago. How can I get married again,' she asked no one in particular, ‘if I don't know whether or not I'm a widow?'

‘I'm sure it'll all come out all right,' Joy said. She was getting very restless, anxious for the man's verdict, and the woman's constant chatter got on her nerves. She got up and paced the room, counting her steps, giving herself fifty before knocking at his door, and then, at forty-nine, another fifty, to give the man a chance. On the second round, they heard his bell, but neither made a move towards the door. Suddenly Joy didn't want to know any more, and Mrs Whitely, too, was loath to hear his verdict. The bell rang once more.

‘I know what it feels like,' the woman said, ‘but you never know, he's probably a fraud like the rest of them.'

As she gave her verdict, Mr Wentworth opened the door himself to find out the reason for the delay.

‘She said that,' Mrs Whitely said quickly, pointing to the woman, anxious to exonerate herself and her daughter-in-law from such a blasphemous opinion.

Mr Wentworth stared at the woman, who, sensing that she had already lost her own private battle, stuffed her husband's vest back into her holdall, and made for the door.

‘What you have said, Madam,' Mr Wentworth called after her, ‘cannot in any way influence my findings in your case. Please stay. I'm sure I can help you.'

The woman turned and sulked back into her chair. Then she took out the vest again, and shook it out to bring it back to consciousness. ‘I'm ready for you now,' Mr Wentworth was saying, and he held the door open for the two ladies.

The map had been taken away, and George's pants lay lifeless on the desk. He took a paper bag from his drawer and put the pants inside. He handed them over. It was a terrible
omen. He'd come to his own conclusion and he himself was killing the vibrations because, as far as he was concerned, a second opinion was totally unnecessary. ‘A very interesting case,' he began. ‘I've never had one quite like it.'

Joy fidgeted. She was not interested in the history of his case diagnoses. She just wanted to know about her George. ‘D'you know where he is?' she said. ‘Is he alive?' She regretted having asked it. That called for only a Yes or No answer. It was altogether too final. ‘D'you know where he is?' she said again, hoping that its repetition would erase the question she had regretted.

‘I have bad news for you,' he said, though there was no sympathy in his voice, and the very lack of it, for some reason, confirmed the faith that Joy had in him. She was going to have to believe him, she knew. This man had no axe to grind. He was guided by a simple faith, and he abided by whatever truth that faith revealed.

‘George Verrey Smith,' he said, ‘is dead. Of that, there is no doubt.'

Mrs Whitely took her daughter-in-law's hand. ‘Don't believe it,' she said. ‘It's all mumbo-jumbo. You're the work of the devil,' she shouted at Mr Wentworth. ‘If my son is dead, then where is his body? Why hasn't that been found?'

‘That's what's so very interesting about the case,' Mr Wentworth went on, unperturbed. ‘Although George Verrey Smith is dead, and of that there is no question, he does not seem to have left a corpse behind.'

‘Then he must have risen,' Mrs Whitely scoffed. Then suddenly hearing her blasphemy, she hastily crossed herself, and took to counting her beads again. ‘Let's go, Joy,' she said, getting up. ‘I must go to confession. This was all a terrible sin.'

But Joy did not move. ‘Why are you so sure he's dead?' Joy said. ‘And where did he die?'

‘I cannot explain certain things to you,' he said. ‘There exist no words to explain certain phenomena. I know he is dead,' he said, ‘because the pulse is gone from his clothing. I think that he died here in London, although there is the sea all about him. Yet his body is neither on land nor the water. Neither,' he added, in case she was going to suggest it, ‘has it been consumed by fire. I have no guidance whatsoever as to where it is. I simply know with absolute certainty, that George
Verrey Smith is no more.' He put his hand on her arm. ‘I'm very sorry,' he said, and Joy sensed that he meant it, but for some reason, it was out of character. She was putting the pants in her bag. There was nothing she could say, except that she believed him. Her mother-in-law was already at the door. She followed her out silently. The woman in the waiting-room let up on her chewing, and seeing Joy's crestfallen face, she said, ‘He's only right if you believe in him,' and as she left the room, Joy felt that the people-diviner was not Mr Wentworth, but the woman waiting outside for her widowhood.

‘Don't fret yourself,' Mrs Whitely kept saying on the way home, but Joy knew that she too was worried. There was still the phone call from the little boy, that fading ray of hope, but Joy knew that that only cleared George of murder. It was no guarantee that he was still alive. She started to cry, already to mourn him. ‘We mustn't believe that man,' Mrs Whitely said with very little self-confidence. ‘Come with me to the church,' she said. ‘We'll wait for confession. We've done a sinful thing by putting our faith in false prophets. Confession will do you good, my dear. It's an ill wind,' she muttered.

‘I'm going home,' Joy said. ‘George may be ringing. I've got to be there for him.'

‘Yes,' Mrs Whitely said. ‘Perhaps that's better for you at the moment. Hold on to your faith. I shall come back later. The Lord will give us guidance. We are punished for our folly.'

They parted at the corner and Joy went home. As she turned into her street, she could see a police car parked in front of her door, and a number of net curtains were raised. She panicked, knowing that there was news of George. She ran towards her house and, as she reached the gate, a policeman got out of the car. He was of high rank by his uniform, and he took her arm as they walked up the drive. Now she knew from his courtesy that the news was bad.

‘Shall we go inside, Mrs Verrey Smith?' he asked.

Joy opened the door and they went into the kitchen. Spit and Polish welcomed them with inappropriate twirpings. She sat down because she knew that what the policeman had to say was going to shake her.

‘I have to ask you, Mrs Verrey Smith,' he said, ‘to come with me to Brighton. A suitcase of clothes has been found. We think they may belong to your husband. We need you to identify them.'

‘Oh, my God,' she whispered. ‘Then he really is dead.' She shook with her sobbing, and the policeman put his hand on her shoulder.

‘It doesn't mean that necessarily,' he said. ‘Nothing like that has been proved. Would you like to make yourself a cup of tea first?' he said, ‘and then I can drive you down.'

She didn't feel like tea or any kind of delay. She wanted to go to Brighton quickly and identify possibly all that was left of George. The continued unknowing was terrible. But she had, out of courtesy, to wait until her mother-in-law came back, yet she did not want her with her in Brighton. She didn't want to tell her about the suitcase, but how could she explain her necessary departure. She was angry that her mother-in-law had come at all, whose presence necessitated such devious excuses. She had enough grief without the need to conceal it. Somehow it wasn't fair. So she went next door to Mrs Johnson and gave her the key, asking her to look out for her mother-in-law. She herself was going to see one of George's school colleagues. That would have to be good enough. Then she left the house quickly, the policeman following her.

They exchanged not a word during the whole journey to Brighton. Joy sobbed most of the way and, when they reached the station, it was some time before she could bring herself to get out of the car.

Inside, in a square cell, Emily waited, battling with Emily. The more dangerous the liaison, the greater her reluctance to give it up. Emily sang like a swan inside her. She was in trouble. She knew that. Her possession of George's clothes pointed at her as his murderer. Yet she had wanted to kill George, as she had wanted to kill her father, but the fact that she had wanted both of them dead, had nothing to do with murder. Emily had told her in no uncertain terms that, if she went back to George, her father was part of that package too.

She heard footsteps in the corridor. They were coming for her. She took her powder compact from her bag, and renewed her make-up. Emily smiled at her through the mirror, a faint smile of blackmail. She put her compact away as a policeman opened the cell door.

‘Follow me,' he said, and she went after him, her Emily steps dragging her, so that he had to wait. He took her back to the reception where she had first been taken, and he knocked on the door. Then he threw the door open wide, and allowed Emily to pass through. She saw her wife standing there in front of the open suitcase, and weeping, and she knew she must stifle any sign of recognition.

The Superintendent did not ask her to sit down. Courtesy was no longer in order. Emily felt Joy staring at her. Through her tears there was a squint of terrible recognition. ‘I know her,' Joy blurted out. ‘I've seen her before. She was at Mr Johnson's funeral.'

The Superintendent put his hand on her arm.

‘Where's my husband?' she screamed at Emily. ‘Where is he?'

The policeman on the other side tried to calm her, to sit her down, to take from her hand a piece of George's clothing that she clasped to her breast. Then she sat on the chair and
broke down completely, sobbing uncontrollably into her husband's shirt.

‘Mrs Emily Price,' the Superintendent said with great ceremony. ‘I am arresting you on suspicion of murder of George Verrey Smith.'

Emily trembled, but there was no fear in her. She wallowed in the positive orgasm of her deception. No. She would not leave Emily. There was too much joy through her, too much truth to be denied. But Joy's anguish tore through her. She had to hold on to herself to prevent herself from moving forward to comfort her.

‘George,' Joy was whimpering. ‘My beloved George.' She looked hard at Emily. ‘He was a good man,' she sobbed. ‘He wouldn't have hurt anybody. You've taken away my life.'

That was the turning point for Emily. It screamed at her for a decision. Well, she thought, there was always the study and the Sunday dressing. There was teaching, an income, a home. There was Mrs Johnson, and oh my God, there was Tommy. It was not much of a choice, but Joy's heartbreaking sobbing made it for her. Gentle, gentle Emily. She would never forgive her. She had to say something. They were all staring at her, wondering why she showed no fear. Well, she would try. She knew it was a question of her life. But her heart was not in it.

‘I am George Verrey Smith,' she tried. She was moved by the Emily voice that insisted out of her. It was pleading and gentle. Emily didn't want to die, and George was loath to bury her.

‘I am George Verrey Smith,' she tried again, and this time the old thrill of that non-hyphened name vibrated just a little. She tried again, as if tuning a string, plucking it occasionally for its true pitch. And as it settled, her voice lost its plea, and took on the old and known resonance. She yielded for the last time. ‘I am George Verrey Smith,' she croaked. Poor Emily.

‘And I'm George Washington,' the Superintendent said. And that reminded him with sudden fear. Had Washington Jones been found? He must go back to London. ‘Come along, Mrs Price,' he said, fastening the suitcase.

‘I am George Verrey Smith,' she insisted, and knew from their hostile response that she had to make a final gesture. She raised her hand to her head and hesitated. Then slowly
she lifted the wig, and placed it tenderly on the table. Joy looked at her, and managed to whisper, ‘George.' She attempted to come towards him but, on rising from her chair, she swayed and fell on the Superintendent's arm. He passed her gently on to the policeman for revival.

The Superintendent picked up the wig from the table and screwed it up in his hand with rage. George thought he heard Emily cry.

‘Well, Mr Verrey Smith,' the Superintendent said, regaining his calm. ‘In that case, it's only a question of rephrasing the charge. George Verrey Smith, I arrest you on suspicion of the murder of Samuel Parsons.'

George was silent. He had no choice now but to give Emily a decent burial and, as he folded her into his heart, his father roared out of his grave like a lion.

I have not been very well. I've been out of countenance and circulation for some while, and I think that this confession has had a lot to do with it. But things are easier now, and the urge to write comes upon me once again. But I wonder to myself why it should be like that, that we attempt to cure ourselves of something, and the attempt itself confounds us. I started out in good faith to tell you everything, and then confession laid me low. It's a lesson, I suppose, to keep one's mouth shut, and to get on with one's living, in private. But once a confession is started, a mistake in itself, it is a greater mistake to leave it half-told.

I was telling you about my father, and then a series of events overtook me and silenced me for a while. They are not important, and have nothing to do with my confession, but out of courtesy I shall relate them briefly, for they do account for the hiatus in this narrative.