The Trouble-Makers (13 page)

She said it simply, as another child might say, “I wish I lived in the country.” Katharine supposed that Angela’s background had led her to feel that a change of parents was roughly equivalent to moving house—something not very likely, but perfectly possible, and rather exciting.

“Well, anyway”—Katharine evaded the issue—“hadn’t you better take those things off now, and begin getting ready for bed? Does your mother let you borrow her clothes like this?”

“She doesn’t stop me,” Angela responded cautiously, and slowly removed the stole from her shoulders. “All right. I don’t mind going to bed
now.
Now it
is
half-past eight.”

Honour thus being satisfied, Katharine went downstairs and resumed her place on the sofa, this time with Flora’s jeans on her lap. Also needle, black cotton, and the new zip.

But no scissors. Fancy having forgotten to bring something as indispensible as scissors, thought Katharine crossly, getting off the sofa once more. If she went home to fetch them, she would only get entangled in some wearisome problem or other of her family’s: some argument to settle; some question to answer; some object to find—something they could
perfectly
well cope with for themselves so long as she simply wasn’t there.

Mary must have some scissors somewhere, surely? Katharine began vaguely looking around the room, but after a minute’s fruitless search she gave it up and called up the stairs to Angela.

Yes. Mummy kept her scissors in the table drawer, Angela informed her, pattering swift and light down the stairs in pyjamas. In the corner of the drawer … just
here
….

But they weren’t. Angela rummaged deeper and deeper,
shuffling paper, string, and many varied objects to the front of the drawer as she did so. Among the flotsam Katharine recognised with surprise a photograph of Stephen. It was one he had had to have taken some time ago, for a centenary publication at his firm, and he seemed to have worn for the occasion an expression of unrelieved gloom and misery.

“How did it get here?” she asked, picking it up, and Angela glanced back casually.

“Oh, I expect it’s the one Jane brought to school,” she surmised vaguely. “We were all bringing all the photographs we could find of dark, criminal-looking men, you see, so as to have an Identity Parade in Dinner Play.
He
wasn’t chosen as the criminal, though,” she added, with a patronising jerk of her head towards the photograph in Katharine’s hand. “Mandy Callaghan’s brother got the most votes. He has a most dreadful, grinning face as well as two teeth missing where he fell off his bike. He looked ever so criminal; and so Mandy won. It wasn’t fair, though, really, because …”

“Jane shouldn’t have taken it without asking,” protested Katharine absently, her attention returning to the question of the scissors. “Isn’t there anywhere else where your mother keeps scissors?” she asked. “They don’t seem to be in here, and I’m sure she won’t like us muddling up the whole drawer like this. Aren’t there any others?”

“There’s a pair in the kitchen that don’t cut,” volunteered Angela, after a moment’s thought. “And
I’ve
got a pair that don’t cut, too,” she added generously, and waited expectantly for Katharine to make her choice.

“Well—can I borrow both of them, do you think?” said Katharine, smiling. “I’ll see which works best.”

Angela ran off; and in a few minutes Katharine was once again settled on the sofa with the jeans and the two blunt pairs of scissors, one of which worked quite well if you pulled on the upper blade with your forefinger, inserted the cotton exactly one and a half inches up, and held it taut with your other hand.

For the next couple of hours she worked steadily, without
interruption. After the jeans the chair-cover. After that the winter coats. Apart from the rustling and heaving of the great garments as she shifted them about on her lap, the house was quite silent; and after a while Katharine began to be aware again of that odd sense of having lived through the whole evening once before. For a second time, surely, she was
mending
this lining … that sandal strap … soon, for a second time, it would be half-past eleven, and she would be
wondering
why the Prescotts were not back yet.

And if now, in the midst of this quietness, she were suddenly to hear a knock on the front door, would that be for the second time? And would she—for a second time—sit here not
answering
it? Just listening, tense, terrified, knowing that the knock would come again?

No, if course not. None of this had happened, nor was going to happen. This queer sense of familiarity was neither memory not foreknowledge, but simply imagination—imagination triggered off partly by that useless clock and partly by Mary’s ridiculous instructions about not answering the door, for all the world as if she was Snow White in the fairy story. As if there might really be a witch out there in the damp suburban night, who would try to sell her a rosy apple to choke her, or a pair of stays to squeeze the breath out of her—or what was that third thing? …

Drowsily Katharine chopped at her last fastening with the annoying scissors, dropped the last garment on the pile at her side, and leaned back against the cushions. And it was then that a wild, desperate knocking at the front door thundered and rattled through the house.

K
ATHARINE SAT QUITE
still for a moment, trying to control the ridiculous beating of her heart. Her brain told her, clearly and positively, that she should simply go and answer the door in the ordinary way; that Mary’s warning had been so much hysterical nonsense, to be totally ignored. But not one single organ in her body seemed to be paying any attention to this sensible message from the brain. Her limbs trembled, her stomach clutched and stiffened, even her head, the container of that clear sensible brain, throbbed and thundered its own independent warning.

The knocking came again, wilder and more imperious, and suddenly Katharine remembered that it might be one of her own family come to fetch her…. Something frightful must have happened at home….

She darted across the room, across the icy, darkened hall, wrestled frantically with the unfamiliar bolts and latches … and a moment later Mary herself was stumbling, half falling, into the hall. Her breath was coming in quick gasps, as if she had been running for miles, and she seemed unable to speak as Katharine helped her across the hall and into the lighted sitting-room.

Limp and unresisting, Mary flopped into the armchair towards which Katharine urged her, and now, between her gasps, she managed to say: “Bolt the door, Katharine. Bolt the front door again—
quickly
!”—and, without pausing to think or argue, Katharine ran to do so.

When she returned, Mary was already sitting up straight, her composure returning as she recovered her breath. Under Katharine’s gentle questioning, she even began to smile at herself a little, and to admit that the cause of her panic had really been nothing more than her own silliness.

“It was when we got off the Tube,” she explained, a little shamefacedly. “Everything had gone quite well, really, until then. I mean, Alan wasn’t being exactly festive, but—you know—we weren’t having any awful row or anything. In a way we’d had a very nice time, and so as we came home on the Tube I was feeling really rather pleased about it all. Until we got to the ticket barrier coming out. I’d got the tickets in my bag—he hadn’t had any change left, you see, and so I’d bought them—and as I handed them over I suddenly got the most awful feeling. Oh, Katharine, I just can’t describe it. A feeling of most dreadful imminent danger, and I suddenly knew that I couldn’t—I just
couldn’t
—walk all alone, just me and Alan, along that little, dark, fenced-in footpath—you know, the short-cut past the bridge into
Archdale
Road. I just couldn’t—and yet I couldn’t possibly explain to him how I felt. So I tried to think of some excuse for going round the long way by the shops, but it would have been just silly—I couldn’t think of
any
sensible reason. And all the time I could feel the danger growing … growing … coming nearer, like some great dark thing with footsteps striding towards me across the houses … across the railway lines…. It was coming, and I was the only one that knew it was coming, and so I knew I must do something…. And so, just on the spur of the moment, I told him that I’d forgotten to tell him that Auntie Pen wanted him to ring her up just exactly then—eleven o’clock it was—and that it would be too late if he waited till we got home. He was dreadfully cross and puzzled, and kept asking questions, but I practically pushed him into the telephone box, and the moment he had his back to me I turned round and ran out of the station. I ran and ran all the way home. I don’t know
what
he’ll say. Oh, Katharine, aren’t I a fool?”

Katharine could not deny it; but she consoled Mary as best she could, pointing out that everyone behaves foolishly sometimes, that Alan would surely realise that Mary had been through great strain lately, and that anyway no particular harm could come of it; at worst, Auntie Pen would be
annoyed for a moment at being disturbed for nothing. And all the time she spoke, Katharine was listening, and knew that Mary was listening, for Alan’s angry footsteps on the pavement outside.

But they did not come; and gradually Mary grew calmer, even ready to laugh a little at her escapade; soon she was asking, a little tremulously, about Katharine’s own evening, congratulating her on the amount of mending she had done.

“Though I nearly didn’t do any,” commented Katharine. “First I went to sleep, and then I found I’d forgotten to bring any scissors. I tried to pinch yours for the evening, but Angela could only find these two poor old pensioners. Where
do
you keep your proper scissors, by the way?”

Mary leaned towards the drawer in which Angela had searched unsuccessfully; and then stopped, with an apologetic laugh.

“Oh—how silly of me! I’ve got them here in my handbag. I noticed them when we got to the theatre, and wondered why on earth I’d put them there. I suppose I must have slipped them in absent-mindedly after fixing the hem of my dress, but I don’t remember it. Funny how you do these things.”

She extracted from her bag a long efficient pair of
dressmaking
scissors—exactly what Katharine had needed. She handed them belatedly to Katharine—and as she did so an uneasiness, a flicker of returning fear came into her eyes. She repeated, a little more forcefully:

“I
must
have put them there myself, mustn’t I, Katharine? Why on earth should anyone else put a pair of scissors in my bag? Why
should
they? …” Her voice held a sort of suppressed shrillness now, and the fear darted sharp and unmistakable across her features. Katharine hastened to reassure her.

“Of course! Of course you did it youself! It’s the easiest thing in the world to do something absent-minded like that when you’re in a hurry. Why, only last Monday I——”

But at this moment the phone rang, and Mary darted out into the hall to answer it. She came back looking relieved but perplexed.

“It was Alan,” she said wonderingly. “And he’s not cross after all. Would you believe it, Auntie Pen
did
want him to ring. Wasn’t it an extraordinary coincidence, when I’d simply made it up on the spur of the moment? But she did, and he’s gone round to her place, and he’ll be very late back—he may even stay there for the night. Can you imagine it? Such an amazing coincidence! There must be a Providence that looks after liars, is that it?”

“Speaking as a hardened liar myself, I’d say, No,”
pronounced
Katharine judicially. “On the contrary, I’d say Providence rather has it in for us—the most unexpected things usually crop up to catch you out. However, I’m glad luck was on your side this time!”

They both laughed; and feeling quite easy in her mind about Mary once more, Katharine gathered up her unwieldy belongings and went back to her own home, Mary waving to her almost cheerfully from the adjoining doorway.

“B
UT
, K
ATHARINE
, you can’t mean we actually have to
go
?
This
evening
?”

For a moment Stephen looked so much like his eldest daughter that Katharine could have burst out laughing. She could also have quoted in advance his next words, his last, hopeless protest: “But you never told me! This is the first I’ve heard of it.”

It wasn’t, of course. This was in fact about the sixth time that Katharine had warned him that on Thursday—tonight, in fact—they were engaged to have dinner with Stella and her husband. But so reluctant had he been to take it in on the over five occasions, and so reluctant, for that matter, had Katharine been to make him give his full attention to the unwelcome news—surely
telling
him was bad enough, without forcing him to
listen
?—that, in a sense, his protest was justified.

“I
did
tell you,” insisted Katharine. “Heaps of times. Anyway, we can’t get out of it now. We have to start in about ten minutes. It’ll give you just time to get ready while I see to the girls’ supper.”

She tried to escape further argument by darting into the kitchen and starting a daunting clatter of crockery; but Stephen followed her, still complaining.

“I suppose that what’s-his-name fellow will be there,” he complained—a trifle unreasonably, it seemed to Katharine, since the what’s-his-name fellow was Stella’s husband and lived there. “And I’ll have to listen to him calling her—what is it? What’s that ridiculous name he calls her?”

“‘Jag’,” said Katharine apologetically. “And she calls him ‘Bloke’. But it’s only their way of——”

“‘Jag’,” repeated Stephen savagely. “‘Jag’ and ‘Bloke’.
My God, and it suits them, too!
Why
does he call her ‘Jag’?”

“Well—short for Stella, I suppose,” said Katharine inanely. “I mean—I suppose it’s a pet name, or something. How should
I
know?” she concluded with more spirit, suddenly
remembering
that after all it wasn’t
her
fault. “Do get ready, Stephen. If we get there late we can’t possibly come away early as well. And whatever the dinner’s like, it’ll be worse if it’s spoilt.”

With these and similar blandishments, Katharine succeeded in getting her husband out of the house and down the road; and the moment they got inside Stella’s front door, she knew that her troubles were over: it was obvious at once that Stella was in one of her cooking moods. An exotic and promising smell of garlic, bay leaves, tomatoes, and many strange spices filled the air, and Stephen’s expression changed dramatically.

“I say! Isn’t it all tidy!” he exclaimed wonderingly as they entered Stella’s sitting-room. “Just look at it, Katharine! Why doesn’t our sitting-room look like this?”

Because our children aren’t at boarding school; that was the answer, of course, though it was hardly for Katharine to give it. But she did think Stella might have done so; instead, Stella just looked inordinately pleased with herself, gave Stephen the most comfortable chair by the fire, and remarked smugly: “Oh, there’s nothing to it, really, you know. I always think that tidiness is just a state of mind. If your mind is
uncluttered
and at peace with itself, then your home will be uncluttered and peaceful too.”

What a lie, thought Katharine crossly. What sort of a fool was going to believe that it was an uncluttered mind that had blackleaded the grate, polished the tiles, and cleaned all the paintwork. It didn’t need an uncluttered mind at all; it needed several absorbent rags and about two hours of leisure, and Stella must know this as well as anybody. And what made it more annoying still was that it seemed out of character for Stella to be a good housewife. With her breezy, aggressive opinions, her unorthodox manners, she should have been living in Bohemian squalor, not in this pretty, polished room with its chintz curtains and chair-covers. And Stella didn’t have
any domestic help, either. Or said she didn’t; but of course you couldn’t be sure nowadays, when not having a domestic help or a car is becoming almost as potent a status symbol as not having a television.

But it didn’t do to think such catty thoughts about one’s hostess, however brightly one kept a smile on one’s face. “Catty thoughts
show
”—that should be the motto engraved above all out mirrors reflected Katharine ruefully. She turned her attention dutifully to the immediate task of getting acquainted with the fellow-guests that had been wished on them, a silent, wary pair called Plumber.

Stella had already charged off to the kitchen, abandoning them to each other’s company with no more of an introduction than “These are the Plumbers”. Not for her the more subtle reaches of hostess-craft, which might have added something helpful like “Mr Plumber is just back from a trip to Iceland” or “Mrs Plumber is very keen on tight-rope walking”. Or even the information that one or other of them taught in a secondary modern school in Ruislip. Or didn’t. Anything to provide a starting-point.

As it was, the whole universe was open to them in which to find a common interest, and patiently Katharine set to work to find out. But it was uphill work, for Mrs Plumber’s powers of conversation seemed to be limited to “No, I didn’t see that,” and “No, I haven’t been there,” and “No, I don’t read that sort of book,” and Mr Plumber just kept humming to show how much at ease he was. Katharine wished that the host or hostess would return, but the sounds from the kitchen did not suggest an early rescue: “Pass that damned jug, Bloke. Where the hell do you think I’m going to put this juice?” and “For God’s sake, Jag, can’t you clear those blasted onion skins out of the way?” … None of this suggested that
preparations
were very near completion. Nor, on the other hand, did it mean that Stella and her husband were panicking and getting on each other’s nerves. Katharine knew that they habitually swore at each other on principle, in the interests of a frank and honest relationship. They sprinkled their
remarks to each other with insults dutifully, as other people sprinkle theirs with “Please” and “Thank you” and “do you mind?” The basic intention—that of improving relations—was the same in both cases.

Katharine plunged once again into conversation—if such it could be called—with the Plumbers. As one subject after another dropped limply into oblivion, she found herself wondering uneasily why she and Stephen should have been singled out to meet this deadly couple? Was it because Stella thought that they were equally boring, and wanted to get them both over together? Or did she—happy thought!—feel that Stephen and Katharine were such scintillating
conversationalists
that they would be able to draw out even the Plumbers?

Stimulated by this improbable hypothesis, Katharine redoubled her efforts: and by the time Stella finally summoned them to dinner, Katharine and Stephen had between them managed to discover that Mrs Plumber didn’t keep a cat, couldn’t drive a car, didn’t prefer coal fires to central heating, had never used emulsion paint, and didn’t think the weather was specially cold for the time of year.

Armed with all this data, Katharine felt that they should soon be making real headway with their companion, but happily it was no longer necessary, for as soon as they sat down to dinner an animated conversation sprang up about the rare and interesting dish that Stella set before them—Italian, or Greek, or something, Katharine surmised—and accompanied by a mighty pile of beautifully cooked rice, fluffy and steaming.

“Oh, well, it hasn’t a recipe really,” explained Stella deprecatingly, as the compliments showered round her. “
Actually
, I never plan meals at all. I just look round the larder and see what I’ve got, and then I just throw things in as the inspiration moves me. It’s funny, but I often think food turns out better that way, if you just don’t bother.”

Stephen and Mr Plumber both nodded in admiring
agreement
, and Katharine succeeded in hiding her total disbelief.
Fresh prawns—button mushrooms—thin strips of veal wrapped round black olives—these are not the sort of items a housewife’s eye lights on when she looks round her larder to see what she’s got. It would take a lunatic to believe it—or someone else’s husband.

“… And of course the tomatoes are out of our own garden,” Stella was saying. “We always get the most marvellous tomatoes from our plants; they last us right through the autumn. Don’t they, Bloke? We never look after them at all, don’t ever water them, and yet we get this marvellous crop. And the funny thing is, our next-door neighbour is always fussing over his, giving them fertiliser and potash and God knows what, and watering them every single evening, and he never gets a crop at all! Isn’t if funny how things work out like that?”

They didn’t work out like that for Katharine, of course. She also didn’t water or look after their tomato plants, and the result for her was that she didn’t get any tomatoes off them. But you could hardly say something like that when everyone was nodding awed agreement with Stella’s proposition. And Stella’s tomatoes
were
delicious—indeed, the whole meal was delicious, and Katharine decided to stop being annoyed and enjoy it. The conversation, too, was enjoyable; it soon became so engrossing that even the Plumbers allowed themselves to be drawn into it at various unperilous points. Mrs Plumber informed them, of her own accord, that she’d never been to Spain, and that she didn’t think her greengrocer sold garlic: and Mr Plumber, even more ambitious, told them quite spontaneously how best to get from Holland Park to
Mornington
Crescent on a Sunday morning.

After dinner, they sat round the fire drinking sweet black coffee into which Stella claimed to have put crushed egg-shells to enhance the flavour. She probably hadn’t, thought
Katharine
grudgingly, but no one could possibly tell one way or the other when they didn’t know what the coffee tasted like before it was enhanced. However, the remark had the desired effect of rousing the wondering admiration of both the male guests,
and it extracted from them the ultimate compliment, treasured by all hostesses everywhere. “Why don’t
you
do that?” they said in unison, turning to their wives.

Shortly afterwards the party was joined by Esmé from the flat upstairs. She entered timidly, clutching a yellow satin workbox, and explaining to Stella that Harry was on duty tonight, and so would Stella mind if——?

“Oh, cut it out!” said Stella cordially. “Just barge in, like everyone else.” Not that anyone else
had
barged in, or anything like it, but Stella always liked to feel that she ran her home like that. “Come on. Squat.” She kicked a low cane stool invitingly, but rather hard, and Esmé timidly set it upright again, settled herself thereon and accepted a cup of coffee.

“Do you taste anything special about it?” prompted Stella hopefully; and on Esmé’s replying that it was very nice, she started all over again about the crushed egg-shells. Esmé looked a little frightened, in an undefined sort of way, but told Stella that yes, it was an awfully good idea, and drank the liquid thoughtfully, while Stella called gaily across the room to Bloke to hurry up for Christ’s sake into the kitchen and stop the damn’ kettle boiling over.

“Why the blazes couldn’t you have turned it off when you brought the coffee in?” asked Bloke amiably, heaving himself out of his chair: but before Stella could explain exactly why the hell she couldn’t have, a small voice piped up to ask if it could borrow some scissors?

Esmé had her workbox open now, and a piece of embroidery canvas spilling out of it. She paused nervously before the word “scissors”, as if wondering whether she should have said “damn’ scissors” out of deference to her host and hostess.

“Of course, kid. Don’t bother to ask. Just grab ’em,” replied Stella, tossing a pair across with a generous disregard for aim that made Esmé start like a frightened bird, and
actually
roused the adjacent Mrs Plumber to a spontaneous expression of opinion. “Ooo!” she said; and then looked round anxiously, as if afraid someone might disagree.

Stella laughed reassuringly. “Rotten shot, aren’t I?” she
apologised cheerfully. “Might have killed someone. By the way, that reminds me——”

She was turning towards Katharine as she spoke, but stopped, very suddenly, in mid-sentence. “I’ll tell you later,” she murmured hastily, and changed the subject by dropping on her knees by Esmé’s stool.

“What is it? What are you making?” she asked the girl; and Esmé, proudly and a little shyly, spread out her canvas, displaying a half-worked clump of pansies, a glorious medley of blues and purples seeming to melt into each other so cunning was the lie of the stitches.

“Isn’t it lovely!” exclaimed Katharine sincerely; and “But what
is
it?” persisted Stella; and Esmé’s eager face, which had grown rosy and shining under Katharine’s praise, now looked a little deflated.

“It’s a—well—it’s just a picture, actually,” she said. “A needlework picture.”

Stella stared. “Do you mean to say it isn’t
for
anything?” she asked accusingly, and Esmé nodded guiltily, like a
schoolgirl
caught out at last in some habitual breach of rules.

“It’s just to
look
at,” she confessed. “We thought it would be nice in our bedroom.”

“Fancy! All that work—and it’s not even Art, either, is it?” declared Stella judically. She stared at the gay scrap of cloth as if it was quite painful to her—the waste of so much precious time. It was painful to Katharine, too, but not because of the waste of time. How happily married you must have to be, she was thinking, to spend all those hours embroidering something just to hang in your bedroom to look at. Suddenly her eyes were stinging with tears, the pansies blurred and dazzled into an amorphous purple glory, and she was thankful that Stella chose that very moment to beg her to come into the kitchen and see how well the washing-up stacked into the new
washing-up
machine.

Stella was a great one for machines. That is, she was a great believer in the time-saving properties of the ones she had got, and in the nuisance value of the ones she hadn’t. She could prove
conclusively that a washing-up machine saved hours of work and never broke anything, whereas a clothes-washing machine demanded endless attention and all the clothes came out grey. Up to a year ago she had been able to prove that you could get to absolutely anywhere more easily by public transport than by car; but that argument was over now, silenced for ever by the Ford Popular now standing in the road outside.