The Husband's Story (13 page)

‘Apple blossom,' Stan corrected him.

Mr Karlin seemed disappointed with himself.

‘I'm no good on flowers,' he admitted. ‘I just know when they're beautiful. And that's what your photograph was – beautiful.' He paused. ‘Have you got any more like it?'

‘Fruit trees, you mean?'

Mr Karlin smiled.

‘Don't have to be. Just nature stuff generally. Or animals. Pets, you know. Pets with children. Open air studies. It's not the subject. It's the treatment. That's where someone like you comes in.'

‘There's
Swans at Teddington Weir,'
Stan told him. ‘That's about my favourite. Two firsts and a special mention.'

‘I'd like to see it sometime.'

‘And there's my
Deserted Platform, Winter,'
Stan went on. ‘And
Coming Home from Church
and
The Old Paper-seller.
And all my snow pictures.
Jack Frost in Kensington Gardens
got a first, too.'

‘Did it, now?' Mr Karlin was nodding his head approvingly. ‘Then I was right about you. I guessed straight away. You're not amateur class. You're professional.'

Stan found it very pleasant being appreciated like that; very agreeable and consoling, after everything that had been happening to him. It was like being stroked.

‘You really think so?'

Mr Karlin shook his head this time.

‘I don't think. I know,' he said. ‘It's my business. We place a lot of pictures. News and action mostly. But there's always a market for the other kind. In the quality papers, that is, and the glossies.'

‘And would mine be good enough?'

‘Properly handled, they would be. Got to have the proper contacts, of course. No use just sending them in. Have to know the picture editors.' He paused. ‘Ever thought of starting it up as a sideline?'

‘Not really.'

It was untrue. Up alone in his darkroom and mooching about outdoors with his Pentax slung over his shoulder, he'd thought about little else. Ever since he'd been a schoolboy with an old box Brownie, he'd known that a camera was a part of him, that his life and photography were somehow all linked up. But he wasn't going to let on to Mr Karlin.

‘There's money in it, you know,' Mr Karlin was telling him, his
voice growing warmer and more confiding as he spoke. ‘Ten guineas here. Fifteen guineas there. Twenty if it's a cover piece. Colour supplements – they're the ones to go for.'

‘And how do I do that?'

‘Get the right representative,' Mr Karlin replied.

Stan looked down into his glass. Already it was half empty. Two more mouthfuls, and he'd have finished it. But he was careful not to hurry. He was playing it cool, very cool.

‘Would you care to represent me?' he asked.

Stan was rather pleased with the question. It made him sound like a professional already.

‘Proud to,' Mr Karlin replied.

And then he paused. It was rather a long pause. And, when he resumed, Stan could see the reason for it. Mr Karlin was embarrassed.

‘It's only that I wouldn't want you to be disappointed in me,' he continued. ‘It can happen, you know. A big fat cheque one month, and then only a fiver or a tenner next time. Got to take the rough with the smooth, you know. It can't be over the hundred mark every time.'

Over the hundred mark! Even though at that moment Stan wasn't drinking, he swallowed. But he was careful to go on wearing his professional expression. And, when he spoke, his voice was quietly businesslike. He doubted if Cliff could have done better.

‘What commission do you charge?' he asked.

‘Ten per cent. Or buy outright. Whichever the client prefers.'

He saw that Stan was looking at his watch, and that reminded him that he was running late himself. He reached into his breast pocket for his wallet.

‘Tell you what,' he said. ‘You send me a selection. Just the best ones. Then I'll see if we can make you an offer. Advance against royalties, if you prefer it that way. We're easy.'

He had taken his card out of the wallet, and was holding it out for Stan to take.

‘You gave me your card last time,' Stan reminded him.

‘Then tear it up,' Mr Karlin told him. ‘It's out of date. We've changed the box number.'

The farewell handshake was a hurried affair because Mr Karlin was so late. But he found time to give Stan a pat on the shoulder as they parted.

Stan looked after him. Mr Karlin was still wearing that Continental-
style raincoat with the big gusset V in the back. There weren't many raincoats like that in London. He was quite sure now that it had been Mr Karlin he'd seen in the Bull and Garter that Sunday morning. Perhaps, without knowing it, they were neighbours. Stan liked the thought of having someone as nice and friendly as Mr Karlin living near to him.

If the past month had been a bad one for Stan it had been worse, much worse, for Beryl. Watching Stan leave for the office in the mornings, she had envied him. He was able to get away from it all, whereas she was stuck there, imprisoned; trapped in the pit that she had helped to dig for herself. She was helpless.

And she had given up caring. She told herself that she didn't mind how the house looked. On some mornings, instead of Hoovering and polishing, she would just go through to the lounge and sit there, doing nothing. If it hadn't been for little Marleen, she'd have been along to the new drug store weeks ago. It was their largest bottle of sleeping-tablets that she had in mind. And, when she got back home, she'd have swallowed the whole lot at once, cramming the tablets into her mouth one after another, like peanuts, so as to end it all.

Gloomy and woebegone as these thoughts were they were not, however, entirely without compensation. She got a lot of satisfaction out of thinking about what her sudden death would do to Stan. As soon as he saw her stretched out, cold and lifeless, on the bathroom floor, he'd know at last what he had done to her. Because he was the one who would have driven her to it; that made it murder really, not suicide. And just in case he didn't see it that way she would leave a note on the washbasin pointing it out to him.

Thinking about Stan had another useful side effect. It made her angry. And when she was really angry, she couldn't be miserable at the same time. Instead of moping, she began to call him names.

‘You silly, stupid, little man,' she said out loud. ‘What good do you think you are to anyone? You're no good to me, that's for certain. No good now, and never have been. You're just a creep, that's what you are. A common, selfish little creep. And no good at your job either, or they'd have promoted you. You head of the department, indeed! Don't make me laugh. You're not fit to run a winkle stall.' It was an expression that she'd once heard, and she rather liked it. On occasions such as this it came in useful; it was so apt. And merely saying it made her feel angrier still. ‘That's why everyone laughs at you,' she went on.
‘Me, and Marleen and the Ebbutts. And secretaries at the office, too. I bet they laugh at you behind your back. I know I would. There's nothing to you – that's your trouble. You're just a pipsqueak. You haven't got the courage of… of a nit.' It was a nasty word, a word that, in the ordinary way, Beryl would never possibly have used. But by now she was saying all the things that, for years and years, she'd been storing up inside her, and she was feeling all the better for it. ‘I don't just despise you,' she finished up. ‘I hate you. D'you hear me? I hate you. Hate you. Hate you. Hate you.'

She was so tired when she had finished that she had to sit down. She was breathless. But she felt better. A sense almost of calm had come over her. She made herself a cup of Nescafe and drank it slowly, thoughtfully. Then, as she wetted her fingertip to gather up a few caffeiney grains that had spilled into the saucer, an idea came to her. It was so obvious that she wondered why it had not occurred to her before. Leaving the cup and saucer unwashed, she went through to the lounge where the telephone was standing.

It was only because of her strength of mind that they were on the telephone at all. Stan had been against it from the start. He regarded the phone as an unnecessary extravagance. But because of emergencies she'd been able to talk him into it. He'd given way in the end when she'd asked him how he'd feel if Marleen suddenly got a burst appendix or something and, because they weren't on the phone, she hadn't been able to save her life. It was the sort of domestic tragedy, she insisted, that was an everyday occurrence in middle-class households. Ivory-white like the kitchen cabinets was the colour that she finally chose for the instrument.

Even so, as it turned out, the installation of the telephone had proved a bit of a disappointment. Beryl had seen it as opening up a whole exciting new world to her, a world of gossip with old friends, shared confidences, surprise invitations. And nothing of the sort had happened. There were practically no calls at all, either incoming or outgoing; apart from the occasional wrong number, there were some weeks when the bell never rang at all.

All the same, Beryl wouldn't have been without it. She liked being able to say to the mothers of Marleen's school friends: ‘Give me a tinkle some time. You've got my number, haven't you?'

And, of course, it served to keep her in touch with Cliff. It was
Cliff's number that she was dialling this morning.

‘Clifford Hamson Group,' the switchboard operator answered, and Beryl felt a pang as she heard her. It just showed the heights that Cliff had climbed to; and all by his own efforts, too. Cliff was right at the top already; not like someone else she could mention.

And, though she had to hold on a moment because he was speaking on another line, she could tell at once how genuinely pleased he was that she had rung him.

‘Hullo, Beautiful,' he greeted her.

The quick intake of breath told him how eager she was.

‘Oh, Cliff,' she said. ‘I want to see you. I need to.'

‘On my way,' he answered, and she could hear the pages of his desk diary rustling. ‘What about Friday? Usual time?'

‘No. You don't understand,' she told him. ‘I want to see you alone.

Not with Stan there.'

It sounded like a low whistle from the other end.

‘Do I smell burning?' he asked.

It was exactly the kind of thing that she'd always liked best about Cliff. He was so much on top of things, so humorous; and deep down, of course, so understanding.

‘I'm in trouble, Cliff.'

‘At your service.'

‘Can I come and see you?'

‘Name the day. I'll be here.'

‘What about tomorrow?'

‘What about
lunch
tomorrow?' he corrected her. ‘Where d'you like -Ritz, Savoy, Dorchester?'

She paused. She would have liked any one of them, even all three on successive days if that had been possible. Her medium-length black with the pale beige would have been exactly right for a West End luncheon engagement. But she wanted Cliff to realize how much in earnest she was, how serious.

‘Just somewhere quiet, please. Somewhere we can talk.'

For a moment this seemed to have put Cliff at a disadvantage. He didn't seem to know many quiet places. Then he remembered just the right one.

‘D'you know Soho?' he asked.

‘I know where it is.'

‘D'you know Greek Street?'

‘I can find it.'

‘Well, write it down. El Morocco in Greek Street.'

‘One o'clock?'

‘Why keep me waiting? I'll be there at quarter to.'

Beryl felt suddenly like crying. She gave a little sniff.

‘Oh, Cliff,' she said, ‘you are nice. You're so good to me.'

This time there was the sound of a kiss blown down the telephone.

‘Listen, Beautiful,' he told her. ‘I haven't started yet.'

Mrs Ebbutt was ever so good about it, or Beryl wouldn't have been able to go up to town at all.

It was Marleen who was the trouble. But Mrs Ebbutt said that she didn't mind a bit: she knew just how Beryl felt about letting a pretty little thing like Marleen walk home alone, and it wouldn't be the slightest trouble going round to the school gates to collect her. Then she could stay with them at No. 18 until Beryl got back. The only thing that Mrs Ebbutt hoped and prayed was that the specialist would tell Beryl that it wasn't.

The specialist had been a sudden, happy invention on Beryl's part, one of those smooth white lies that make life so much easier. She'd thought of it just as she was putting the telephone down. And, to set her mind at rest, she'd gone next door straight away. The note of urgency was all too apparent, but Mrs Ebbutt couldn't help admiring the way Beryl played it down, made it sound as though it didn't really matter.

‘It probably isn't anything,' she had said. ‘Not really. It's just that he wants a second opinion like. I mean doctors can't be expected to know everything, can they? You know me, I wouldn't bother. But it's gone on for such a long time now…'

After she had heard Beryl's news, Mrs Ebbutt insisted on keeping her there while she made a cup of tea. It came as rather a relaxed and pleasant interlude, chatting over the hazards of womanhood; and Mrs Ebbutt couldn't help admiring Beryl even more when she said that she didn't want even the least whisper to reach Stan because he'd worry himself half-demented just thinking about it. That was when Mrs Ebbutt said that she was glad, downright glad, that the doctor was being so careful because she'd noticed that Beryl hadn't been looking quite herself for some considerable time now. This rather upset Beryl.

But Mrs Ebbutt had a heart of gold: no question about that. She was
even there next morning waiting at the window to give Beryl a good-luck wave as, so calmly, so bravely, she set off for the station as though it were any ordinary kind of day.