The Husband's Story (38 page)

Loyal and steadfast, like the true friend whom Beryl had always known him to be, Cliff took charge of everything.

And how she needed him. The solicitor Stan had been given had proved useless, absolutely useless. When he heard that bail was not going to be allowed, he went to pieces; looking more anxious than ever, he just kept drawing in his breath, making it quite clear that this was not the sort of case in which, with his kind of practice, he wished to become involved.

And, at the Prison, he could not even manage to arrange another
meeting for Stan and Beryl so that they could talk things over. Away for some considerable time, when he did at last come back, it was only to report that there was nothing doing because Stan was being moved; what was worse was that it turned out that he had been unable to discover where he was going. Of course, he would be keeping closely in touch, he assured them but, beyond that, he could for the moment tell them nothing more. No doubt, he added as an afterthought, Stan would be brought up before the magistrate again tomorrow, and then they would all know what really was going on.

It was the indefiniteness of everything – and the shame and humiliation of it all – that made Beryl angry. Tense and tight-lipped, she sat there in the Prison car park, silently waiting. She had, indeed, become so remote and isolated that Cliff grew anxious about her. Even when he gave her hand a whole series of little squeezes there was hardly any response at all. She seemed oblivious of everything.

With Marleen it was all rather different. It was the first time she had ever been allowed to share fully in adult affairs. And she was enjoying herself. She recognized that the margin of acceptance was a narrow one: a single word out of place and she might find herself being excluded again. In consequence, she played her part very carefully. Like her mother, she said nothing. But she remembered what was expected of her. Passive and demure, her hands folded disconsolately in her lap, she glanced up furtively from time to time; and, whenever there was anyone looking, she would give a little gulp and struggle bravely to stifle and choke back her tears.

They were just getting ready to leave when a young man came hurrying up to them. He was from
The Isle of Wight Guardian
, he said, and his editor wondered if he could be given any indication as to the nature of the new charges that were impending. He had a photographer with him.

This again was where Beryl was so relieved to have Cliff beside her: he knew exactly how to handle the Press. First, he raised his forefinger vertically to his lips to indicate that what he was about to say was highly confidential. Then, he jerked his head over to one side to make it clear that he wanted the young man to move in closer; and, when he did speak, it was in a hoarse stage-whisper.

‘He was planning to steal the Needles,' he told him.

The young man smiled politely.

‘No, seriously,' he said.

Cliff appeared to be surprised.

‘That's serious enough, isn't it?' he asked. ‘National Trust property, you know. All belongs to the Queen.'

The young man had pencil out in readiness, and he was still very painstaking and polite.

‘Friend of the family?' he enquired. ‘Might I have your name, please?'

Cliff did not hesitate.

‘Douglas Fairbanks,' he replied. Then, after a short pause, he added: ‘Senior.'

The reporter wrote it all down.

‘And the young lady?' he asked, pointing the end of his pencil at Marleen. ‘Is she the daughter?'

Again Cliff gave the secrecy signal with his forefinger.

‘No, the aunt,' he said.

Cliff was still smiling to himself as he switched on the engine. Not that he'd found it difficult to put the reporter from the local paper in his place. There was really nothing in it; either you had the knack, or you hadn't.

It was so hot and sunny on the way back, and the car radio was on so loud, that they drove along, not talking. Beryl was trying to scratch a speck of dirt off her white jacket, using the tip of her fingernail as though it were a scalpel, and Cliff was thinking about the Naval catering contract. You could never be sure of anything until it was signed and witnessed – he was always reminding himself of that. Even so, he wasn't in much doubt about this one; and he had certainly put everything he'd got into it. But, once into Service supplies, you were really onto something. Uniforms and equipment were only just round the corner. And with them…

Marleen was preoccupied, too. But her thoughts were purely personal. She hadn't liked seeing the young man teased in that way, and still thought that it was horrid of Uncle Cliff to have behaved like that; after all, the reporter had only been doing what his editor had told him to do. And, even if he was a bit on the short side, Marleen had noticed that he had very nice eyes.

Because Beryl had an uneasy feeling that, back at Pineland, they would all be talking about her, Cliff suggested that they should lunch out somewhere; and, after a Pimms beforehand and a bottle of hock with the meal, other people's curiosity seemed less important. All the
same, it was annoying. When they finally returned to Pineland, the young reporter from
The Isle of Wight Guardian
had got there before them. When they arrived he was already deep in conversation with the clerk in the reception office. And the clerk appeared to be keeping nothing back.

‘… friend of the family you might call him, I suppose,' he was saying. ‘Spends most of his time over there with her in Hiawatha, you know.'

It was Cliff's arrival that had interrupted him. The reception clerk turned away and pretended to be hanging up some keys. But the reporter remained unruffled and professional.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Fairbanks,' he said as Cliff passed by him.

Almost as soon as they got indoors, the telephone rang. It was the solicitor, and it was to say that he was on the way over. He was speaking fast and rather loud.

As soon as Beryl had put back the receiver she turned towards Cliff.

‘He says there's been a development or something,' she told him. ‘He made it sound like it was something serious like.'

Cliff, however, did not appear to be unduly concerned. He said that it was probably only that they wanted the bail money after all, and would like a little on account. The best thing the two of them could do, he assured them, was to sit back and take things easy. While they were waiting, a little drink wouldn't do them any harm, he added; and he offered to go across to the store for some more Scotch.

He got up and stepped outside onto the front porch as he said it. But, to Beryl's surprise, he was promptly back indoors again.

‘That bloody little reporter's hanging about outside,' he said. ‘And he's got a photographer with him.'

Beryl started nervously.

‘Where's Marleen?' she asked.

‘She's out there, too,' he told her.

And through the open door, they could see her. Marleen was still wearing her Court-room dress – the simple, all-white one with the sailor collar. But there was a difference. She had undone the top button of the jacket and, with one leg up on the top step beside her, her skirt had become raised a little. In her right hand she was holding a strawberry ice cream cornet.

Beryl thrust forward, her hand ready to dash the ice cream from Marleen's lips.

The reporter looked across to the photographer.

‘Make it a two-shot,' he shouted.

In the end, the strain had proved too much: not surprisingly, Beryl had collapsed under it. She was in the hands of the Colony's doctor by now, and it was tranquillizers that he had prescribed. In consequence, she was not really with them any longer – just drifting about on Cloud Seven with a medicated pad across her eyes and a glass of iced water within arm's reach in case she should need a sip.

At first, Marleen had sat there at the bedside with her in case she should need anything. Then, when it became apparent to Marleen that she would not be needed, she had got up and tip-toed from the room. She was now down beside the Pool, book in hand, quietly waiting for someone nice to come up and speak to her.

On the veranda outside the chalet, Cliff and the solicitor were both sitting. They were waiting for Beryl to wake up.

‘Of course, with those extra charges, it becomes quite a different kind of case, you see,' the solicitor had just said. ‘This'll have to go to the Old Bailey.'

‘Old Bailey?'

Cliff brought himself bolt upright in his chair as he heard the words.

‘Bound to be,' the solicitor told him. ‘Official Secrets, you see.'

Cliff did not reply immediately; instead he started to draw his left hand slowly up and down his face as if he were massaging it. His right hand was still holding the glass of whisky-and-soda that he happened to have been drinking.

‘But things aren't really likely to get that far, are they?' he asked. ‘Not when you think of the sunstroke and all that? Not when they get character witnesses?'

This time it was the solicitor who paused. Not normally an unusually observant man, he was surprised to notice the sudden change in Cliff's appearance. The air of easy confidence had vanished completely, and even his polka-dot bow-tie seemed somehow mysteriously to have wilted.

‘Too late for character witnesses now,' the solicitor said, with a note of trained professional regret in his voice. ‘There's the confession, you
know. Can't get around that one.'

‘The confession?'

Cliff was disappointed in himself: it seemed that all that he could do was to repeat whatever had just been said to him.

The solicitor nodded.

‘Ten pages of it,' he replied, drawing his breath in with a hiss as he uttered the words. ‘Ten pages. All voluntarily given and without my knowledge.'

Cliff continued to run his hand aimlessly across his cheek. He had put the glass of whisky-and-soda down by now.

‘What's it say?' he asked.

The question struck Stan's solicitor as significant. For a moment, he even wondered whether Cliff could be involved, too, he seemed so much concerned. Then he dismissed the idea. Small-time lawyer though he was, he could still recognize guilt when he saw it. And he could tell at once, this wasn't guilt at all: it was fear.

Nor did he see any reason why he should spare him. Cliff hadn't ever been to any pains to be particularly nice to him: on the contrary, he'd rather gone out of his way to make him feel smaller than he really was.

‘Oh, the usual,' he said pointedly. ‘Motive. Opportunity. Accomplices. Financial transactions. Family background. Marital circumstances. Domestic circle. It's all there. Nothing missing.'

‘Marital circumstances… domestic circle': Cliff found that he was repeating the words. Only silently to himself, this time. And, as he did so, he saw that it would be no good now attempting to deny anything. There was too much against him for that. There was the news picture of the three of them when he had given the press photographer the fancy name of Fairbanks; and there was the Court offer of bail in his own name; and, looking back, it was distinctly compromising remembering where Beryl had been found when the young policeman had called round to see her.

‘Does… does he mention me?' he asked.

The solicitor noticed the hesitation with which Cliff put the question; also, he could not help noticing that the customary incisive ring to Cliff's voice was no longer there.

‘Oh, yes, you figure in it,' he said. ‘But only in a general way, of course. Just as a friend, you know. Just someone who was close to him.' He paused. ‘They'll be wanting a statement from you, naturally. They'll
have to follow up all the ends they've got.'

But Cliff was no longer listening. All that he was thinking about was his Naval contract, the one for general supplies. And he was being quite realistic about it: he could see that any hope of Service catering had gone up in smoke as soon as Stan had so much as mentioned him. Nor need it necessarily end there, he realized:
they
would be on to him; and, at the thought of policemen coming round for a statement, he went clammy.

There was only one thing that he wanted, and that was his own solicitor: the little man on the Isle of Wight was of no use to him any longer.

He got up hurriedly.

‘Have to excuse me,' he said. ‘Got to make a phone call.'

The evening bell, the one that chimed out to announce that the Trapper's Bar was open and that fire-water was already being served there, had just sounded: and still Beryl was sleeping soundly.

Until now, the afternoon had proved to be a disappointing one for Marleen; the only people who had spoken to her had been mothers with children younger than herself. Then, just when she was getting miserable and had begun to sulk, a rather smart woman with a kind face had asked if she would like to go down into the little town to be with her while she went shopping.

That was how it was that Marleen came bursting into Beryl's room to wake her up.

‘Mum,' she said. ‘Mum, I've just seen Uncle Cliff. He's on the ferry. Last car on. Why's he going off like that? He said he'd booked till Monday; will he get a refund, Mum? Will he?'

If it was hot down there on the Isle of Wight – real heatstroke weather as Beryl still believed – it was fairly sweltering up in London. Tarry patches had begun to appear on road surfaces and, all round the Serpentine, the grass was littered with half-bare sun-bathers. Fleet Street, in particular, was being baked-out and desiccated. Not that there's anything very remarkable in that. It's the same every time there is a heat wave. There's something in the architecture of the place that does it. In the early afternoon, with the western sun pouring down on it, great pools of burnt-up air begin forming outside the Law Courts. Then, about three o'clock, the dam bursts and the whole accumulated load goes cascading down, past Chancery Lane and Bouverie Street, towards Ludgate Circus, to remain trapped there in the basin, sullen and suffocating until nightfall.