The Child's Child (23 page)

“Me and you could live on one of them boats.”

Probably Bertie wasn’t serious. Boats were expensive, at least a hundred pounds, John thought, but the idea was wonderful, romantic, delightful—and impossible. He imagined the two of them looking after each other, cooking in the little galley such a boat would have, sitting side by side on deck appropriately enough in deck chairs, while on another passing boat someone was singing to a guitar.

Bertie broke into this absurd reverie. “There’s a caff over there where the boatmen go.” He turned to John, laughing. “You know what? A lot of folks would say that a blackmailer, which is what you say I am, puts himself in danger walking on the riverbank with the bloke he’s blackmailing.”

John stopped. “What do you mean?”

“Come on, Johnny. You know. Me and you, you could murder me. Stop me speaking, savvy?”

Shaking his head, John said, “You come on. Let’s go to your café.”

Once again he had the feeling Bertie had no idea of the depth of John’s love for him. This theory of a blackmailee killing his blackmailer must have come out of one of the books Bertie read, shilling shockers with lurid covers of dead girls lying in pools of blood, only his were more like twopenny shockers. They went into the place called Teds Caff. One of the boatmen was still in his sou’wester, while his dog slept under the table between his feet. The waitress, a clean and decently dressed girl, took their order, Bertie’s for pie and mash, John’s for sausages, though he had no appetite and wondered if he could bring himself to take a bite out of one of these pallid objects lying on his plate in congealing
brown gravy. John paid. When they came out onto the canal path once more, Bertie wanted to go to another pub, but John stopped him, making him sit down on a wooden bench.

“You didn’t really think I would harm you, did you?” This suggestion of Bertie’s had been haunting John throughout the meal.

“You never could take a joke,” said Bertie sullenly.

“That you could be afraid of me, think I’d hurt you—it cuts me to the heart.”

“The way you go on, anyone’d think I was a girl.”

John said nothing. If two men couldn’t love each other, be as close as he and Maud were supposed to be but weren’t, his life was meaningless. It was pointless saying so. They began to walk once more, quite alone on the canal bank, the water still, a dull yellow colour. Above the tall, rather sinister-looking four-storey houses on the other side, the sky was broken into choppy clouds of varied grey. They walked along the stone coping of the waterway, passing the moored boat of the man with the dog. Its oars rested in their rowlocks. John stopped and stood to gaze at the pair of pink-foot geese that glided westwards. They reminded him of a Chinese poem he had once read about how when you see the geese flying north, if you must shoot, kill not one but both of them so that the pair will not be put asunder.

His reverie was interrupted. “Well, which one of us is more likely to push the other one in? You or me? Why d’you think I’m standing well back? I wouldn’t be where you are with my toes hanging over the edge.”

With that, John felt a touch on his lower back and then a harder thrust as Bertie’s hand pushed against his spine. He teetered on the brink, snatched at the air, and fell. The water was dirty, cloudy yellow, and cold. John floundered and gasped. He had tried to learn to swim when he was at school, but the lessons had for some reason stopped and he had never mastered the technique. He sank below the surface, seeing the canal bottom
below him, seemingly yards below him, and cluttered with wood and metal waste. Kicking and splashing, he surfaced and cried to Bertie, “Fetch an oar!” John was quite near the stone coping, but as he tried to grasp it, get some sort of purchase on it, his frozen hands slipped away from the granite and he sank once more.

He rose up again, his mouth and nose full of filthy water, gasping for breath. The paddle end of an oar touched the water and was pushed towards him. He tried to grab it, but as he did so, Bertie pulled it away, laughing.

“Bertie, please. I shall drown!”

Then, as if that was what he’d wanted, what he’d intended all the time, Bertie raised the oar a foot above John’s head and shoved it hard against his forehead, thrusting him under the water. John knew that this time he would never come up again, all his strength was gone. Twice in the past he had imagined ways to die, had almost hoped to die. Once more his nose filled with water, then his mouth as he opened it uselessly to shout, and the icy liquid stifled and choked him. He was dimly aware of horror and of the yellow world turning black as he struggled, beating against this alien water, then sank for the last time into the hopeless darkness.

M
AKING SURE
the old man with the dog was still in the café, Bertie put the oar back. He didn’t know how to replace it in the rowlock so he threw it into the bottom of the boat. He began to walk back the way he and John had come. If he regretted anything, it was that John’s pocket had contained the coins he had kept back. The meal hadn’t cost anything like five bob. Still, Bertie had the considerable sum of forty-two pounds, ten and ninepence, John had given him.

John would be all right, Bertie told himself. He’d only given him a little tap with the oar. Swimming underwater for a few yards, he’d have come up by now, maybe gone back into the café to get dry and have a moan to Ted. If he caught a cold, it served him right for talking to a bloke like he was a girl. It was more than embarrassing, Bertie thought, it was downright shame-making. He glanced back once and thought he could see a head above the water on the far side, but when he looked again, he saw that it was only a child’s ball, fallen from a passing boat.

T
HE LETTER
from a solicitor in Bristol told Maud that she had inherited five thousand pounds under her grandmother Mary Halliwell’s will. Mrs. Halliwell’s house and the bulk of her fortune had gone to her children, including Maud’s mother, and fifteen thousand to be equally divided between her three granddaughters. Nothing was to go to John. But that was not surprising, she had always preferred the girls.

Maud could hardly believe it. She thought at first it was some sort of hoax. If John had been there, she would have asked his opinion, but John had never returned from his visit to London. He had taken her at her word, obviously, and remained with that man Bertie. Daphne Crocker, Maud’s neighbour at No. 4, was on the phone. Greatly daring because she had hardly ever used one, Maud asked Daphne if she could make a long-distance call to Bristol. Daphne had to get through for her, but eventually Maud, reiterating her promise to pay Daphne, spoke to the solicitor and had her legacy confirmed.

“Ask for an advance on the money,” Daphne whispered. “Ask him to send you a postal order.”

Maud did and was told that would be no trouble.

“Oh, Daphne, I still can’t quite believe it.”

“What will your husband say?”

Maud had told everyone that John was visiting his parents
because his father was ill, and perhaps he was. “He’ll be thrilled. Of course he will.”

It was a large sum of money. She felt that it had saved her life. All she had was the money John had left behind when he went to London a fortnight before, and since then she hadn’t heard from him. Two letters had come for him, one of them with the name of the school on the envelope, the other she guessed, without knowing for sure, from the headmaster. Then Elspeth Dean had come. Was Mr. Goodwin ill? Everyone was so worried.

Tired of prevaricating, Maud said, “I don’t know where he is. I don’t know what’s wrong. I’m as much in the dark as any of you.”

Elspeth, in her cape, her trailing coatee, and long skirt, her long, red hair loose about her shoulders like an extra cloak, was unlike any other woman Maud knew. “If you ever want someone to confide in, Mrs. Goodwin, you can talk to me. You can trust me, you know.”

“I’ve nothing to confide.” Maud clamped her lips tight shut.

The truth was that she had too much to confide. Of course they would all think John had left his wife. Now she had the money, perhaps it would be best if they did think that. She would get sympathy and help. After all, she had never really liked the arrangement they had, it was all his idea, and she had never been consulted. They were to be husband and wife, Mr. and Mrs. Goodwin, but she had often wondered how much of the truth Mrs. Tremlett had guessed. That bed in the second bedroom, for instance. How often had Maud forgotten to make it look, on the days her neighbour came to clean, as if no one had slept in it? Sometimes, when calling at the village shop, she had had some strange looks from other women. One that she had been in the habit of passing the time of day with walked past her without a word. Perhaps now, if John stayed away, she could move out of here and take a nicer house in a nearby village—when, for instance, the time came for Hope to change schools.

The money came, and in the absence of John to advise her, she plucked up her courage to go into an Ashburton bank and open an account. The manager treated her with deference when he knew how much money she had to deposit with him. She called herself Mrs. Goodwin as she always had. Hope had begun asking when Daddy was coming back. Maud could only tell the truth and say she didn’t know. But she had begun to worry rather than accept, and so had Hope. Several times she came upon the child crying in her bedroom and could say nothing to reassure or comfort her. Lying awake at night, trying to think where John could possibly be if not with Bertie, she wondered if he could have had some sort of accident and, with nothing on him to show who he was, died in a hospital or even in the street. She searched the room that had been his and found not a letter from Bertie, but an address torn from the top of a letter. The backward-sloping handwriting was easily recognisable as his.

Not really expecting a reply, she wrote to him asking if John was with him. She had forgotten Bertie’s surname and she felt awkward addressing him as Bertie instead of Mr. something. But it hardly mattered. He might not even live at that address anymore. His answer came two days later, almost by return of post. He addressed her as “Mrs. Goodwin” as if he really believed her to be John’s wife. Apart from the handwriting and the grammatical errors, his letter might have come from a different person, not the Bertie she had met. He told her he hadn’t seen John for more than a year, and then only to have a cup of tea with him in a café. Nor had they
corasponded.

Maud decided to break her rule and go home to Bristol. Some word about John might have reached her parents rather than her. Well-off and independent now, she understood that she could have taken Hope with her. Years had passed since her little girl had been rejected, and surely she would now be purged of the taint of illegitimacy. But Maud was afraid to risk it. She left Hope
with Gladys and her children, who were all friends of hers, and promised to be back next day. However she was received, they could put her up for one night. She wrote to her mother, leaving on the train on the day her letter would have got there.

Having money did not make Maud profligate but rather induced in her a degree of saving if not quite miserliness. She could have afforded to travel first class, but still she went third as she and John had done when first they escaped and came here. She had with her an overnight bag and a photograph of herself and Hope and Gillian Tranter taken in the Bury Row garden, “on the off chance,” as she put it to herself, of her mother’s asking to see it. Telling herself that she didn’t care what they thought of her or how they received her, all she wanted was to know John’s whereabouts, she had nevertheless dressed herself in her new red tweed costume, her coat with the fur collar, and dark red court shoes. Let them see that she flourished and that their treatment of her hadn’t beaten her down.

H
ER MOTHER
stared. She seemed hardly to know Maud, although the letter had arrived that morning.

“Well, here you are then” was all she said, opening the front door a little wider and stepping back for Maud to come in.

Sybil, not at work for some reason, kissed Maud and said she was pleased to see her; she too asked why Maud hadn’t brought “the little girl.” Maud made no answer to that but accepted the tea Sybil made. Mary Goodwin had grown thin and looked ill. They had all
been
ill, Sybil said, all had severe flu except Father, who was bad enough without that. She was still recovering from it and still off work.

“There’s a lot of it about,” Sybil said. “Quite an epidemic. Be careful you don’t catch it. You won’t want to give it to the little girl.”

“She has a name,” Maud said angrily.

“Hope, yes,” said her mother. “I expect she will need it.”

Maud resolved not to lose her temper. She drank her tea, noting that she was offered nothing to eat.

“Now you’re here, you’d better come upstairs and see Father.”

Was she to break her rule of never speaking to him again?

He lay in bed, propped on three or four pillows, his face grey and drawn down on one side, the eye half-closed, his mouth crooked and sagging open. From the opening a slimy trail of saliva dribbled.

Sybil wiped his face with a handkerchief and said in a theatrical whisper, “It’s no use talking to him. He doesn’t speak.”

It was impossible to look at that face and the bewilderment in the one good eye without feeling pity. To end like that, how horrible . . .

Sybil suddenly bawled at him, “All right, are you, Father? Nothing you want?”

Maud fancied that the distorted face winced, but it might have been her imagination.

“See you in a while, then,” Sybil yelled, and they went downstairs.

Mary Goodwin had prepared a meal while they were upstairs, a kind of cross between dinner and high tea, setting out pork pies, cold ham, sliced tomatoes, and hot boiled potatoes on the dining-room table. Maud sat down and Sybil sat down and their mother said grace. When she had finished asking the Lord to make them truly thankful, almost without taking a breath, Mary Goodwin said, “I thought John might have come with you.”