The Husband's Story (35 page)

After that, it was no wonder that she could not go to sleep again. She lay there, all tensed-up and rigid, listening to the sound of Stan's regular breathing in the bed alongside hers, and wished more than ever that she had insisted on single rooms. His very presence was an insult. It served to remind her that, if it hadn't been for that sudden interruption, she might at this very moment have found herself being unfaithful to Cliff.

A faint sound like the creaking of a mattress reached her from the inner room. Immediately she sat up again.

‘That you, Marleen?' she asked.

There was no reply. Marleen was tired, too. Ever since Stan had come in and taken his shoes off she had been sitting, propped up on one elbow, listening to see if Mummy and Daddy had anything else interesting to say to each other. But all that, she decided, was over for the night. Sleep was now what she most wanted.

Silken gold hair streaming across the pretty pink pillowcase, she was already snuggled down, and really dreaming.

Beryl was not the only one who had been thinking about Cliff's arrival. Stan had it in mind, too, and he had decided that he had better do something about it.

There was, he had noticed, an excellent Men's Wear section in the Trading Post; and, if his present sports jacket upset Beryl as much as she said it did, he had decided that he would go along and buy himself a new one. Double-breasted blazer style in blue with brass buttons was what he still wanted, but he was prepared to consider anything that was his size and looked suitably jaunty and holiday-ish. Nor was there any difficulty about seeing whether they would take a cheque. Before he had come away he had drawn a whole hundred pounds in cash from that second bank account of his – the one in an assumed name using the accommodation address in Putney. That was one piece of advice of Mr Karlin's that he had not forgotten: never write a cheque when cash will do, and never let your real bank manager know by how much your personal expenses have suddenly gone up.

The Post, however, had nothing in navy blue. It was check, the assistant said, that everyone was wearing this year; bright check, American-cut and in reds and russets mostly. In the end, Stan chose a russet one, with a pattern of broad yellow and magenta stripes crisscrossing it. That was his mistake. The yellow and magenta stripes clashed distressingly with the pale green shirt that he was wearing and the assistant suggested a new shirt altogether; something in orange, perhaps. After some hesitation, Stan agreed with him.

There was no hesitation at all, however, when it came to the trousers. He had to admit straight away that, below an orange-coloured shirt and a russet check sports jacket, baggy grey flannels with the nap long since worn off looked simply incongruous: they might have been something picked up in one of the smaller Oxfam shops. Pale fawn he finally settled for, and a pair of toe-strap sandals to go with them.

Thirty-seven ten was what the whole lot came to, and he changed then and there in the small, curtained fitting-room at the back of the shop. Surrounded as he was by tall mirrors, the effect was remarkable.
He hardly recognized himself. And already the new outfit had done something to him. He felt a new zest for life come over him. Before he left the shop he bought himself a white floppy linen hat that came down rather low over the ears, and – by now for the sheer devilment of it – a pair of dark glasses. By the time he stepped out into the sunlight again he was a different man, a stranger. With the Trading Post shopping bag containing his everyday clothes slung over his arm, if he had met Beryl face to face she would not have known him.

Nor did she. When, unannounced, he slid into the deck chair next to hers and attempted to put his arm round her shoulders she let out a little scream; and she could not find it in her to forgive him very easily. It was not funny, she said, to come up from nowhere and startle people like that: if she'd had a weak heart or something she didn't like to think what might have happened.

She didn't like what he was wearing, either. The best thing he could do, she told him, was to take the whole lot back where they came from and try to get something sensible for once. She even called Marleen over to back up her opinion. Marleen, however, could only spare a moment. She was busy watching a tall young man in black trunks swimming a very splashy butterfly-stroke down the length of the Beaver Pool.

‘Oh, Dad, really,' was all she said, and turned away again to go on watching the tall, energetic young man. With Marleen, Beryl had noticed, horses already seemed to be on the way out and rather leggy young men definitely on the way in.

By midday, when Cliff did arrive, he was wearing just the kind of blue blazer that Stan himself had wanted. It looked very well on him, too, with the spotted yellow foulard, worn cravat-fashion, and the open-necked shirt.

It was purely by accident, mere coincidence as it were, that Beryl was there at the entrance gates to meet him. All morning she had been restless and unsettled. Twice she had tried sitting down by the Pool, but each time she had got up and begun walking about again; she had been along to the Store where Stan had bought that ridiculous outfit of his, not buying anything, just looking; she had made a hair appointment; she had been back to the Pool again to keep an eye on Marleen; she had washed out a pair of nylons in the little private shower-room of their cabin.

Then around twelve o'clock, when Cliff had told her to expect him, she had strolled idly along in the direction of the front gates, more to kill time than for any other reason. And there sure enough he was, just as he'd said he would be: it caused quite a stir when she jumped into the Mustang beside him and they
veroom-veroomed
together down the side lane that led to the bachelor quarters. ‘Powhattan' was what Cliff's was called.

It was just as well that Cliff had arrived because Stan didn't show up very much; he was much too preoccupied. From breakfast-time onwards, he had been wandering around, light meter in hand, and as soon as lunch was over he wanted to get back to the job. Indeed, he was so intent upon his work that he didn't even bother to listen when Cliff began making remarks about his russet sports jacket with the yellow and magenta stripes. Stan had more than that on his mind. He had just come to one of his big decisions:
Sunshine in Summerland
was what his new album was going to be called, and every study in it would be rainbow-bright and blooming.

When Marleen said that she wanted to go back down to the Pool, Beryl raised no objections. She had just seen the tall young man who swam butterfly-stroke go off in the opposite direction and, in any case, she wanted to get Marleen out of the way for a bit. Stan himself was just setting off. He had loaded himself up with his large equipment case that seemed too big for him; and, as they looked at the retreating figure in his strange holiday clothing with the white linen hat on top, Cliff and Beryl raised their eyebrows and smiled understandingly at each other.

‘It's what he likes doing,' Beryl said. ‘It's all he ever thinks about.' Cliff let his strong, masculine hand rest for a moment on Beryl's slim, pale one.

‘Suits me,' he said. He took out a cigarette and lit it slowly, deliberately. ‘Thinking of coming over to my place?' he asked.

Beryl knew that was what he was going to say, and she was ready for it. She gave his free hand a little slap, not hard enough to hurt but just sufficient to show that she disapproved.

‘Not yet,' she said. ‘Later on perhaps. We'll see.'

Her voice had a distinct tremor in it. It was by no means the calm, matter-of-fact voice that she had intended to use.

It was Cliff who made everything all right for her, the way he always did. His big, muscular hand came down on top of hers again, only this
time he left it there. And the little squeeze that he gave showed that he knew that everything was going to be all right.

For a while they sat on together in silence, happy in each other's company; and then, when they did speak, it was about Cliff himself mostly. That was because he was so pleased with the way his business enterprises were going that he couldn't keep quiet about it. He had to tell someone; Beryl preferably. He was, she learned, by now reasonably confident – practically certain, in fact – that he had broken into the magic circle of Service contracts. It was still too early to go into details, and he'd had to agree to go into a syndicate. That, he admitted, was a minus. But there was also a plus. Because his side of it was Disposables – plastic cups, plastic cutlery, cleaning tissues, toilet paper, that kind of thing. And the great thing about Disposables, as he kept explaining to her, was that by their very nature the customer was always coming back for more. He even went so far as to say that it looked as if his whole future – and hers, too, if she cared to have it that way – was now set fair. There were still bigger things on the horizon; and, after that, who knows, who cares, he added.

Naturally, as she listened she couldn't help admiring him. He was so sure of himself, so positive; and she couldn't help feeling flattered, too, with so much that he'd got already, she herself was what he wanted most. Just thinking about it, remembering how it all might have been, brought a lump into her throat and made her want to cry. The one thing she longed for was to have his arms around her; and, when at last he bent over her and whispered ‘What about it?' she got up obediently, to go down with him to Bachelors' Row.

Destiny, she had read somewhere, is what happens when it comes to you.

Oddly enough Stan, too, had been thinking about destiny. From two-thirty onwards he had been down at Yarmouth harbour going round the yacht moorings; and, in all that time, nothing had seemed to go quite right – just sunlight and seagulls and fleecy clouds and mastheads, but no colour; or sunlight and blue sails, fleecy clouds and mast-heads, but not a single seagull in the right place.

Then, magically, it all fell into place as though some divine director had been arranging it: same sunlight, same fleecy clouds, same mastheads, same seagulls and, down on the water, blue sails, white sails and a tiny dinghy with red, all grouped, prize-fashion, around a single floating
swan. The effect was so beautiful, so overwhelming, that he held his breath the whole time he was taking the picture – one twenty-fifth of a second at f.8, he gave it – lest the least movement on his part should somehow shatter the bright image.

It was getting on for five-thirty by then, and Stan suddenly realized how tired he was; physically, mentally and emotionally worn out; even if the swan had managed to get the boats to cluster around again, he would not have had the strength to take another picture. But that's the way it always is with serious photography: Stan knew from experience how one really successful shot can leave you knocked out for hours.

It was because he felt so pleasantly exhausted that he went into the bar of the George to give himself a drink. It was not something that normally he would have dreamed of doing; in the ordinary way, he would have hurried back to Pineland to see if Beryl wanted anything. But tonight he just didn't feel strong enough to laugh at any of Cliff's jokes, even when they were not in a roundabout way more or less deliberately directed against him.

After his second whisky-and-water, Stan felt better; more at one with the place. Quite nautical, in fact. It was as though all his life he had mixed with bronzed young men wearing gum boots and thick guernseys. They seemed such a happy, wholesome breed that he found himself rather envious. But, at the same time, sorry for them, because their day at sea was already over, and night would so soon be upon them. Whereas in a single frame in the camera inside his equipment case, that swan and those boats of his would go on gleaming in celluloid sunlight until the end of time.

So as not to get in anyone's way he tried to keep his equipment case tucked in neatly between his legs. But it was a large case, and people still kept falling over it; that was why he took up his drink and moved out onto the terrace. It was cooler there, with a breeze that had come in straight past the Needles from the open sea. Someone had left a folded-up newspaper on one of the seats, and Stan was grateful for it. Because of all the excitement about Cliff's arrival he'd missed the radio all day; simply hadn't heard a word of news, in fact. He opened up the paper and began to read.

That was when anyone sitting near him would have noticed that he had suddenly gone very pale; pale and frozen. He just sat there, motionless, staring down at the sheet of newsprint.

Apparently, under pressure, the Speaker had given way and agreed to an emergency debate. That had been yesterday; and, by midnight, the whole issue had been decided. ‘LEVIATHAN REPRIEVED' was what the headline said.

His hand began to shake. They were just little tremblings at first, but soon there were great big jerks, too, and twitches as well in the midst of them. Holding a glass was entirely out of the question: he had already realized this, and had hurriedly put it down; so hurriedly, in fact, that he had to let go too soon. The glass balanced itself for a moment on the edge of the round metal table, then tilted over and fell off onto the stone paving with a crash. People were beginning to look at him by now.

But Stan didn't care about other people. There was only one thing on his mind, and that was to get to a telephone before it was too late. It was his duty to warn somebody; somebody important. The Prime Minister preferably.

The telephone in the hall was already in use when he got to it, and there was nothing for it but to try one of the kiosks on the quay outside. Pushing his way past a party of visitors who were just coming into the hotel, and not stopping to apologize even when his equipment case banged into them, he set off at the double. But it was hopeless; quite hopeless. There was frustration lurking round every corner. The first kiosk was a wreck, freshly vandalized and without even a mouthpiece to speak into; the one next to it had someone in it, and an impatient-looking woman already standing by outside. It was when Stan tried the third kiosk that he knew why she was there; even though everything in there looked perfectly normal and in good order, all that you got when you lifted the receiver was a low whirring sound like birds twittering.