The Walking Stick (32 page)

As I opened the door a woman was turning away. She stopped and looked at me, startled. She was the woman I had seen here once before, Leigh’s father’s next-door neighbour.

I smiled in relief. ‘Did you want Leigh?’

‘Oh – er – well . . . I just called . . . Is he . . .? He’s not in, I suppose?’

‘No, he won’t be back till about five-thirty. Can I give him a message?’

‘Well, no . . . that is, yes . . . I left a note . . .’

She seemed scared. Good-looking, as I realized before, fortyish, fresh young skin, good eyes with very clear whites, brown hair with curls round her forehead. Navy blue twin-set with tweed
skirt, navy mohair coat.

I realized I was standing on a letter, picked it up, smiled again. ‘Is this for Leigh?’

‘Yes . . . I rang just thinking he might be just in. But I didn’t expect – to find – er – anyone else . . .’

She hadn’t expected me. ‘I’m never normally home at this time; but . . . You’re a neighbour of Leigh’s father, aren’t you?’

A shadow crossed her face. ‘Is that what he says?’

‘I thought he did. Do come in for a minute. It’s cold here.’

She hesitated. ‘I oughtn’t to. Leigh told me not to come round.’

‘Well, he won’t be home for hours yet, and I’ve just made a cup of tea. Like one?’ I felt a need for company, ordinary decent female company, and she seemed nice. You
could talk to her about everyday things.

She still hesitated. ‘I don’t think I ought, Miss – er—’

‘Dainton.’

‘I don’t think I ought. You see, I don’t want to upset him.’

‘Why should you upset him? Anyway you can’t if he never knows you’ve been.’

She fumbled nervously with her gloves and looked round as if expecting someone at her elbow. ‘Well . . . I really don’t know.’

She came in. I put her letter, marked by my shoe, on the table where the post usually went, and encouraged her into a chair by the electric fire. Of course the tea was cold, but I put the kettle
on again. When I came back she had slipped off her coat and was warming her hands, which had seen a lot of rough work. We discussed the fog until the kettle boiled, then I went and made the tea and
brought it in on a tray and we sat and sipped together.

‘Is Mr Hartley not well again?’ I asked.

She flushed. Colour came to her face very easily. ‘Oh . . . Leigh’s told you that, has he? No, he’s not well. He gets bronchitis in the winter, and this year it’s been
much worse. We wonder if he’ll be able to keep his job. He’s not due for a full pension yet for five years.’

‘D’you want Leigh to go and see him?’

‘Yes . . . that’s what I do want. He hasn’t been near us for nearly a year. Of course his dad didn’t approve of the way he was living, and said so; and it made for poor
feeling; but I’m sure Joe – that’s my husband – would be glad to see Leigh to talk things over. I think it would really do him good just to meet him and talk to him
again.’

Light dawning. ‘You’re not Mr Hartley’s neighbour then – you’re his wife? You must be his second wife – Leigh’s stepmother. I wonder why he never told
me about you!’

The woman sipped her tea. ‘No, I’m not his second wife, I’m his first. I really don’t know why Leigh should be ashamed of me!’

Emotion then. Two women, both rather weepy – though I think she didn’t see mine for her own. Soothe her agitation while trying to soothe something in me. Alarm
bell. Why, why? No sense, no reason. Teacups clattering shakily. I expect I misunderstood him, Mrs Hartley. No, no, that’s what he likes people to think; I shouldn’t have told you;
he’d be furious with me. Well, he’ll never know.

A cigarette, perhaps? Well, a cigarette. Leigh’s packet on the mantelpiece, three left. No matches. Oh, thank you, I’ve a lighter. Click, click; flame flickering near moist eyes,
draw in, hide behind the smoke. Do you not smoke, Miss Dainton? No; I did once for a bit but I gave it up. Joe doesn’t now, he used to; I don’t at home because it makes him cough.

Embarrassed silence. Another cup of tea? No, thank you, I really must go. Do stay a little longer; happy to have met Leigh’s mother.

She about half-finished the cigarette while I busied putting the cups back on the tray; then quite suddenly she said: ‘I really don’t think he’s
ashamed
of me. Not
really, you know.’

‘I’m sure he isn’t. Why should he be?’

‘But he likes to make things up. He likes to feel different from other people. He likes to think things are different from what they really are. To be an orphan, to sound motherless.
It’s an attitude. He was always a good boy but he used to make things up, still does. His schoolmaster used to say it was his way of escaping from reality. His dad used to get very cross
– didn’t make allowances. I hope – I hope it hasn’t upset you, Miss Dainton, I hope you won’t let it get back to him.’

‘No, of course I won’t. But . . .’ clinging to a last disbelief ‘. . . you look too
young
.’

‘Oh, thank you. I’m forty-four. Maybe I haven’t gone grey; maybe that’s it.’

‘You were very young, then, when Leigh was born.’

‘Twenty-two. It seems young now.’ She saw something in my expression. ‘Did you think Leigh was older? I
mustn’t
talk any more. I shall say something I
shouldn’t. I’m always
talking
too much, Leigh says.’

‘No, no. Go on.’ In spite of the tea my hands were very cold, circulation suddenly poor. ‘It doesn’t matter. Leigh and I are very fond of each other. This won’t
– make any difference.’

She said: ‘What lovely hair you’ve got, Miss Dainton. Has Leigh painted you?’

‘Once or twice.’ I laughed dryly. ‘Not as often as he painted his wife.’ And waited.

The clock ticked. ‘Oh, Lorne,’ said Mrs Hartley, fumbling with her handkerchief. ‘D’you know I hardly knew her.’

So that was all right. Not just an excuse not to marry me. Hands out to the fire; but draw them back because they’re not awfully steady.

Mrs Hartley said: ‘Only twenty at the time. Very impulsive, but Leigh
is
impulsive. I met her – I met Lorne – for the first time at the church. It was awful.’

‘What was awful?’

‘Well, nine o’clock in the morning and only four people there, and the Catholic priest would hardly look at us because we were Protestants. It was over in five minutes. We might have
been lepers.’

‘Was this in Swindon?’

‘No, a church near here.’

‘Do you live in Swindon – or in Clapham?’

‘Oh . . . In Clapham, Miss Dainton. I’ve been there all my married life.’

‘And Leigh lived with you?’

‘Yes – until he left home. His dad was against it, him leaving home at nineteen without a proper job. At least he didn’t think it a proper job, working part time for this man,
Mr Foil.’

‘Did he work for Mr Foil?’

‘Oh, yes, before he came here. Didn’t you know? – Mr Foil has an antique shop. Leigh worked there.’

‘I didn’t know.’

‘His dad wanted him to go on the railways. Said it was steady and he could paint in his spare time. Leigh’s painting and drawing was always a bone between them. Joe never believed in
it. But you think he’s a good painter, don’t you, Miss Dainton?’

‘Oh yes. He’s good.’

The sky had cleared while I dozed and the clouds were reflecting a reddening sun. The derricks on the other bank looked briefly like flamingos bending to drink at the edge of a lake. A string of
barges moved downstream, sliding quietly with the tide.

‘His dad says I spoiled him, him being an only child; but I didn’t really, Miss Dainton, not really. He was brought up well, and well looked after, and that always shows,
doesn’t it. He’ll make good yet, I’m always saying to Joe. Don’t worry, I say. Joe thinks because we had it hard, he has to.’ She drew at her cigarette uneasily.
‘I really must go.’

‘Where do you live, actually?’

‘Right overlooking the Common, the top floor. It’s a house that’s been divided up. No. 28, Albert Road. It was lovely tea. Thanks.’

‘Don’t go. I’ve often said to Leigh I wanted to meet his family. Did you say he was an only child?’

‘Yes. So was I. Perhaps it’s in the family, like. But he was luckier than me. My mum and dad both died when I was four. I was brought up in an orphanage. You wouldn’t think
– or I hope you wouldn’t think . . .’

‘No, I certainly wouldn’t!’

‘I went into service, first. But then I got into a shop. John Lewis’s, it was. In Oxford Street. As an apprentice. I was doing very well. But the war came and I joined the ATS and
after a couple of years I met Joe and we got married and I had Leigh. After the war Leigh was still a tiny baby and you couldn’t leave him all day long to go back into a shop. But after he
went to school I went into service again. Not regular, of course. Daily woman, by the hour. You get paid quite well, and it helped out. We could buy things that we couldn’t have on
Joe’s money. A fridge. Vi-spring mattresses. A bicycle for Leigh.’ She smiled suddenly. ‘D’you know, Miss Dainton, we’ve never had anything on the HP all our lives.
It’s old-fashioned, I know, but we don’t believe in it. I still go out two days a week, and we save what I get till it’s enough to buy something. At Christmas we bought an
electric toaster, chromium, one of those that pop up when the toast is done. But it doesn’t work too well. We joke about it. One side toasts pale and other side dark. Joe says it must believe
in a colour bar . . .’

‘Have you been,’ I began, ‘were you artistic yourself?’

‘No, not from me. I never could draw at all. But his dad paints lovely water-colours of flowers. He always says he hasn’t got a garden so he has to paint one . . . But it’s a
hobby with him, you see. He thinks it ought to be only a hobby with everyone. With Leigh. That’s why they fell out.’

‘Was it your husband’s sister who left Leigh the legacy?’

‘What?’ She stared. ‘Oh, that bit of money. No . . . it was his grannie, Joe’s mother. He won prizes at school; two drawing prizes. But he wouldn’t work at other
things. He’s clever, you know that.’

‘Oh, yes . . . I know that.’

We sat in a strangely companionable silence. While she was talking I had listened to her light, pleasant voice. There was nothing there of Leigh’s harshness. It was almost without
accent.

I said: ‘Leigh’s never told me much about this legacy. But I’m afraid he’s spent it now.’

She said: ‘Oh, Grannie Hartley didn’t leave any money, but she left a little house, and we sold that. Half went to Joe and half to Leigh . . . Yes, I’m afraid he’s spent
it long since. That’s what Joe doesn’t like – living above yourself, he calls it.’

‘I know what you mean.’

‘And Joe thinks Mr Foil is the wrong influence. Joe thinks that’s wrong.’ Mrs Hartley got up. ‘I really must go. It’s been nice.’

‘It’s been very nice.’

‘Leigh’s told me about you, of course; but he – he sort of doesn’t want us in his new life, I think that’s it.’

‘If you were my mother,’ I said, ‘I’d want you in my life.’

She flushed again. ‘Oh, d’you mean it? It’s lovely to hear you say that . . . Really lovely. Don’t tell him I’ve been, will you, dear?’

‘I’ll say I found the note. Actually I’m only here by chance – because of something that happened in my office . . .’

He got back at six, looking just the same. Clear eyes – like his mother’s – narrow nose, curly, tight, untidy hair, heavy lids, brilliant teeth. Leigh. My love. My lying
love.

He was full of questions. He wanted to know every detail . . . He didn’t look at all tired for the loss of a night’s sleep. His headache had lasted till midday but unlike mine was
now gone. I turned the questions. The jewellery, he answered, had gone straight to Jack Foil. For two or three days more nothing would be done; then it would be moved by easy stages to Amsterdam.
The money would take time to come through.

Until the visit of Mrs Hartley I’d been pressed by fears of the police. Though these fears still stalked I felt unable – at least temporarily – to discuss them with him.
I’d been standing on rock and part of the rock was quicksand.

He didn’t mention the shop in Lambeth.

I pointed out the letter and he opened it.

‘From your father?’

‘Well, more or less. He wants me to go and see him. Maybe I will. Next week, maybe, I’ll take a day off and go.’

I said: ‘Was it your father’s sister who left you this legacy?’

‘What? Oh . . . sort of. It was an aunt.’

‘How much did she leave you, Leigh? How much have you got through?’

He took my shoulders and kissed me. ‘It’s gone, that’s what matters. It wasn’t much. But now there’s a lovely lot to come. God, I was scared last night. I was so
scared at the beginning that I could hardly think straight. D’you remember how I snapped at you when you came back? Sheer funk. I never thought I’d be so weak in the knees and paralysed
with funk.’

‘I was scared myself.’

‘You didn’t show it. You were bloody marvellous. I shall never forget the way you played along right through to the end.’

‘That’s the way I’d like it.’

‘What?’

‘To be able to play along right through to the end.’

He shifted uneasily, sensing something in my voice, I suppose.

‘D’you know,’ I said, ‘I never knew you’d worked for Jack Foil in his shop?’

‘Who told you?’

‘Ted.’

He looked at me, but his gaze seemed to be centered more between my eyes than actually looking into them.

‘Yes, I worked for Jack for about nine months before I got the legacy and moved in here. It was interesting but I got bored. Then I came in for this money and moved.’

‘Was this after you married Lorne or before?’

‘Oh, before. Look Deb, I’ve got to go out again. I – ’

‘How did you first meet Jack Foil? You’ve never told me.’

‘In a pub. Ted first and then Jack. I was in a dead-end job pushing a pen, but wanting to paint, aching to. I meet Jack and he says he’d like to see some of my stuff. I show it him
and he takes one for his antique shop – a flower painting of all Goddamn things – and sells it,
and
sells it! Maybe he wasn’t as surprised as I was. But he took an interest
from the start. The first professional ever to see real talent in what I did. And he’s never lost faith, that’s still more!’ Leigh took up his leather jacket and began to struggle
into it. A piece of the lining had come away, and he made a couple of attempts before finding the sleeve. ‘After I’d known him about six months he said would I like to work in his
antique shop, as a sort of assistant and general helper. I jumped at it, because it meant I could get time to paint.’