The Angel in the Corner (8 page)

Harold Martin was an irritable man, disappointed with the way his life had gone, and with himself for not managing it better. Helen knew him as opinionated and intolerant. She would not have excused that even if she had known that his quickness to find the flaws in other people arose partly from his dislike of the flaws in himself.

He was a tall, colourless man, with hair that receded from a thinning widow’s peak, and a loose-skinned face that did not smile enough. Virginia had often wished for a cosy father, with firm cheeks and a curving watch-chain, on to whose knee she could climb at any time. She never climbed on her father’s knee, except possibly as a baby, which she could not remember. His knees were not the kind you climbed on. She doubted whether her mother had ever climbed on to them. It would have been better if she had; but if Harold’s knees were not scaleable, neither was Helen the kind of woman who climbed on knees.

Once, when Virginia had gone to the flat by the river, dressed in her best by Helen, to show that the female side of the family was prospering, her father was not there. He had forgotten about her. He had gone out, the housekeeper said, and she had taken Virginia down into her own basement flat and given her cocoa and shortbread.

Helen had been furious when Virginia returned home, and had sworn never to let her go again. However, a few days later there was a stilted letter from Harold, apologizing briefly, and offering to take Virginia to the zoo. Virginia did not particularly like the zoo, but she recognized the wish to make amends and went, against her mother’s advice.

It was a scorching, airless Sunday. The paths of the zoo were so crowded with heated parents and sticky children that you could hardly get near the animals, and the queue for the rides on the exhausted elephants was so long that Harold said they could not wait. The zoo smelled abominable, and most of the animals were sulking and panting at the back of their cages, so that whatever pleasure you had hoped to take in them was turned to pity.

‘Aren’t you enjoying it?’ Virginia’s father had asked. She looked up at him to see what she ought to say. He was so obviously suffering himself that she was honest, and said no.

Their mutual relief at being able to leave brought them a little closer. It was the first time that Virginia could remember them feeling the same way about anything. He bought her an ice cream on the way out, and she spoiled their slightly improved relationship by spilling the melting ice cream down her dress. Both of them, as usual, were relieved when he put her into the taxi to go home.

The next day, Virginia had been sick with a mild form of sunstroke, and her mother had grumbled for a long time about Harold. In the next holidays, he had gone away, and by the time the holidays after that came round, it was somehow tacitly assumed that Virginia would not visit her father any more. Helen did not write to arrange a visit, and Harold did not write to ask when Virginia was coming. It was considered to be a relief to all parties, and Virginia did not see her father again.

It was only as the years went by without a father that Virginia began to remember a few good things about him. She remembered how he had played the piano, and how, occasionally at the flat, she would sit content for the brief while he consented to play, and watch the red stone in his signet ring catching the light from the lamp, although she was not interested in the kind of music he played.

She remembered, long after she saw him for the last time, something that she had not noticed before. Much as he disliked her mother, and she felt sure that he did, he had never once said anything derogatory about her. Virginia was accustomed to hearing her mother criticize her father, and tell of mean things he had done in the past, but Harold never said anything. He did not praise Helen, but he never blamed her. He did not talk about her.

*

In the days that followed Virginia’s revelation in the fitting-room, Helen talked intermittently about the woman Virginia had seen getting out of the taxi in the snow. She was piqued by the idea that Harold should have the effrontery to be married when she was not, and she was also greatly intrigued by the mysterious woman.

‘What was she like?’ she kept asking. ‘You must have seen more of her. There’s a street-lamp by the gate. Was she pretty?’

‘Honestly, Helen, I told you. I only saw her back. She had on a fur coat, that’s all I know.’

‘What kind of fur?’ Helen pounced, hoping to hear that it was rabbit. ‘How can you be so unobservant? You’re simply being sly. Was she plain? Did she look older than I do?’

She was so vexed with curiosity that finally Virginia took pity on her, and restored her peace of mind by telling her that she had seen enough of the woman after all to know that she was dowdy, and much older than her mother.

This mollified Helen considerably, and she dropped the subject, except to ask once: ‘Did she have red hair? He always hated red hair, and it would serve him right to marry a woman who had it.’

Virginia’s curiosity was not so easily quenched. She could not forget the couple. When she was a child, she had been willing to put her father out of her life. Now that she was grown up, and had seen him again, she could not forget that he was her father. She must know what had happened to him.

She had finished her daytime course at the college, which had ended with a sad little homily from Mr Deems on the subject of the
Northgate Gazette.
She was waiting now for her interview
with the managing editor of
Lady Beautiful.
Having nothing else to do, she took a bus one morning after her mother had left for the office, and walked up the hill to the once familiar house, which had now become a house of mystery.

She did not want to see her father. She had made a promise to Helen, and did not think of breaking it. Virginia wanted to see his wife, and she had devised a plan for getting into the house without revealing who she was.

The hollow sound of her knock on the door, echoing in the high-ceilinged hall, was disturbingly familiar. As Virginia waited for an answer, she found herself hoping intensely that the woman would be nice. The motive which had brought her here was a desire to see the loose ends of her father’s story satisfactorily tied up. If she was never to see him again, she wanted to think of him as happy and settled, so that she could without compunction carry on her life without him.

A woman opened the door. The first sight of her was so startling that Virginia almost took a step backwards, but recovered her balance in time. One side of the woman’s face was covered from upper lip to hairline with a dark red birthmark, mottled like a bruise. The discoloured skin was shiny and slightly raised. The eye on that side was like a Negro’s eye, the white more noticeable against the dark background.

The hideous birthmark gave the woman the air of a victim. It did not look as if it had grown with her, but rather as if it had been slapped on from the outside, like a smack in the face.

Virginia’s first thought was: How Helen would love to hear about this! She would never tell her. Pity and embarrassment had knocked her prepared opening words from her lips, and she felt herself staring, but she knew that it would be even ruder to look away.

Some women look suspicious when they open the door to a stranger. Some, if they are busy, look cross. Others look completely blank, as if they expected nothing from anyone any more. This woman, however, on seeing Virginia on her doorstep, broke into a welcoming smile that at once lessened the affliction of her face. The birthmark could not be ignored, but it suddenly looked less like an injury, and more like an integral part of her face.

‘Mrs Martin?’ Virginia asked, her own name sounding strange. She had not expected the woman to contradict her, and so was not taken off her guard when she nodded. She had known as soon as the door opened that this was her father’s wife. She had expected it to be, and in that moment of shock when she saw the disfigured face, she was certain. Everything fell into place. Her father, hypercritical, intolerant of physical or mental defects, had been irritated beyond endurance by Virginia’s mother, with her carefully-groomed poise. He had found fault with her appearance even when it was almost perfect. Now he had found himself a woman who was so imperfect that she must be above criticism. There would be no need for intolerance any more.

‘Can I help you?’ Mrs Martin asked. Her voice was quiet and friendly. She made no attempt to turn her face to one side.

‘I represent the Colgate-Palmolive Company,’ Virginia said, remembering the lines she had rehearsed. ‘We’re conducting a survey on consumer habits. If you wouldn’t mind, I would like to know which of our products you use, and why you like them.’

‘That’s nice,’ the woman said amiably. ‘I’ve heard of people being asked things like that, but no one has ever done it to me. The only thing is, I’m not sure which are your products. There are so many different new things, and they all have such attractive names. I buy all sorts of things I see in advertisements, to see if it’s as good as they say. They never are. Oh, but I shouldn’t say that to you, I suppose.’

Virginia had the impression that Mrs Martin was talking to gain time. Her remarks were a little at random, as if there were something else she really wanted to say.

‘That’s all right,’ Virginia said. ‘I’m not in the advertising department. Perhaps if you could let me see your kitchen, I could find out which of our products you have.’

It was easier to get into the house than she had expected. The woman stepped aside at once, as if she were glad of the chance to ask her in, and Virginia entered her own house feeling like a stranger.

The house did not look the same. There were more rugs on
the floor. The walls, which Helen had kept pale and austere, were covered with a lively paper and hung with intelligible pictures. The dark passage to the kitchen had new lighting. The kitchen itself, which had defeated Tiny and the daily woman with its cheerlessness, was now a place of gay curtains and bright linoleum, with the old yellow dresser painted white and hung with floral china.

Virginia could imagine how her mother would scoff. ‘Homey,’ she would say. ‘Revoltingly snug.’ Helen had disliked the house so much that she had not bothered to try and make anything of it. If she had redecorated it, it would never have been in this way.

‘I was just going to have some coffee,’ Harold’s wife said. ‘Sit down and I’ll pour it.’ She took an old-fashioned coffee-pot from the back of the stove. Homey again. Virginia could hear the voice of her mother, who would never drink coffee from anything but an electric percolator.

They talked of the weather, and of nothing in particular. Mrs Martin still seemed to have something on her mind, which she was trying to voice. Perhaps she had sensed from the start that Virginia was an impostor. However, since she said nothing, the impersonation must be carried through. Virginia had got into the house. She had seen her father’s wife, and the kind of surroundings in which he now lived. It was time to go.

‘Well,’ she said. ‘I had better get down to business.’ She took out the reporter’s notebook which she had bought for the
Northgate Gazette.
‘If I could just see your soap powders, and polishes, and – and those things.’

‘Look, my dear.’ Virginia looked at Mrs Martin and saw that she was blushing. The flush on the unaffected cheek and the deepened red of the birthmark gave her face a fiery look, as if she were standing at a furnace. Her hands were making little nervous pleats in the front of her overall. As Virginia noticed this, she noticed something else. The overall was a smock. Was it possible? The woman looked over forty. Her figure might be naturally bulky.

‘Forgive me,’ Mrs Martin said, standing up, as if this gave her courage, ‘but please don’t pretend any longer. Unless you want to, of course. I think I know who you are. You’re Harold’s
daughter, aren’t you? Virginia.’ She spoke the name as if she enjoyed the sound of it.

Virginia looked so startled that Mrs Martin said in confusion: ‘Oh, dear, have I made a mistake? I shouldn’t have said anything, but I felt so sure.’

‘It’s all right.’ Virginia closed her notebook and tried to laugh. ‘I wouldn’t have known what soap powder to look for, anyway. How did you know?’

‘I saw your picture in the
Tatler,
not long ago, when you were at a dance. It was just like you. I see that now. I kept the picture. I have it upstairs, but I didn’t show it to Harold. Perhaps I should, but I thought it was better for him not to know what you looked like than to know that you were beautiful, and he couldn’t see you. Have you come to see him?’ Her face grew flushed again with eagerness.

Virginia shook her head. ‘I came to see you. I saw you in the street one night with him, and I wanted to see you again. I think I ought to go,’ she added uncertainly. ‘I don’t think my mother would like me to be here.’ She did not normally care what Helen liked or did not like, but she had made a pact with her and she could not go over to the other camp.

Mrs Martin seemed to understand. ‘I wish Harold could see you,’ she said, ‘but if your mother wants it this way, that’s her business. Perhaps she’s right. I don’t know. The whole thing is such a pity. I shan’t tell him you came, if that’s what is worrying you. Perhaps you could come again, Virginia, if you ever want to. I’m always here. I don’t go out much.’ Her hand touched her discoloured cheek, and she smiled.

When Virginia was leaving, Mrs Martin said: ‘I wish you had come in the afternoon. You could have seen Andrew when he got back from school.’

‘Your son?’

‘Yes. Perhaps when he is older, you two will meet. And the other one too.’ She glanced down at her smock. ‘People think I’m very old to be having a baby, but I’m not really. I’m only thirty-eight. I look older, you see, because of this.’ She touched her face again. ‘I always looked quite old, even when I was young. Funny, to think I tried to commit suicide once. Now I don’t mind about it at all. There are so many other things.’

When she went to the house, Virginia had thought that if she could discover a hint that her father was happy, she would not be troubled by the thought of his existence. Now that she felt sure he was happy, she found that she wanted more than ever to see him again. She walked down the hill away from the house as if she were walking away from home. But as long as she lived with her mother, she could not go back. She could not do that to Helen.