The Whispering Gallery (11 page)

“How about lunch? Anywhere you like. My treat.” The prospect made him realise just how hungry he was.

“I can't, Johnny. I've got to make up for my absence on Monday.”

“You were allowed out yesterday.”

“That's why the cow made such a fuss.” She was no doubt referring to Margaret Budibent.

“I understand. How are you?”

“All right. What about you? How are your bruises?”

“Like a rainbow.” He wanted to say so many things: that he missed her, loved her more than any other girl in the world, that he wanted to marry her but, in his heart of hearts, he knew it was too late.

“Was there something else?”

“I've been invited to some kind of secret party on Friday. I've been told it will be a night like no other. Will you come with me?”

“I can't.” She sighed. She could postpone the moment no longer. “I'm sorry, Johnny. I'm seeing another man.”

Wednesday, 7th July, 2.25 p.m.

If he was crossing the Thames on foot he usually stopped to admire the view. The panorama from the middle of any bridge, in reminding him that he lived in the greatest city in the world, never failed to inspire him. Today, though, for the first time in his life, he felt like jumping.

The high tide was on the turn. Wherries, lighters and pleasure-cruisers, all sailing at different speeds, clogged the capital's main artery. A police launch, hooter sounding, weaved among the waterborne traffic. Pedestrians, enjoying the stiffer breeze on London Bridge, lingered to follow its progress. Perhaps someone else had already taken the plunge.

He could see the end of Dark House Lane on the left between Billingsgate Market and the Custom House. If he were still alive on Friday he could drown his sorrows at the party there. He turned his back on the Tower of London and looked upstream towards Southwark Bridge. He could smell the malt from the brewery by Cannon Street station.

The sinking feeling of the past few days had vanished as soon as Stella had delivered her thunderbolt. He had known something was amiss but had never suspected that she was being unfaithful. He had reached rock bottom now. There was a metallic taste in his mouth. Every action required an immense amount of effort. Was there any point in going on?

He would be thirty-one next month. Most men were married at that age. What was wrong with him? Why had she ditched him? How could he have been so blind?

He was full of incoherent rage and yet, strangely enough, he didn't feel angry with her. He loved her as much as ever. Perhaps he was still in shock. He had to snap out of it, shake off this malaise. There was no point in feeling sorry for himself, torturing himself with what might have been. He was a survivor. His speciality was kicking against the pricks. He was determined to find out the identity of the other man. But what would he do then? He stared at his feet and, in spite of his misery, gave a rueful smile. He would cross that bridge when he came to it.

Johnny disliked loose ends. The anticipated announcement had appeared in
The Times
that morning. He would attend Frederick Callingham's funeral on Friday – a far more positive step than thinking about his own. Then there was the question of who was sending him female body parts and why. And who had stolen his novel? No, there was too much to do: topping himself would have to wait.

He had told PDQ that he was going to meet a police informant in Kent and would not be back until the next day. It was true: Matt was a copper and he told him things. The deputy news editor, intuiting that Johnny had received bad news, decided not to quibble. His favourite reporter was having a hard week.

As the 2.50 p.m. rattled over the points outside London Bridge station, the slums of Bermondsey beneath him, smoke from chimneys – each blazoned with a vertical advertisement: IDRIS, PYRENE, GUINNESS – commingling with the steam, Johnny realised that, although he was playing truant, he did not feel the slightest bit guilty. After all, he had ended up working on Saturday, even though it had supposedly been his day off. He had seen the deaths of two men that afternoon and had just been contemplating his own.

It was unlikely that Matt would want to discuss Frederick Callingham on this, his day off. Matt despised suicides. It wasn't that he lacked compassion. He saved his pity for those who deserved it, not those who, in his words, took the easy way out. Johnny attributed such toughness to the fact that the sergeant often had to pick up the pieces – literally.

Izane Road was a good twenty-minute walk from the station. Johnny had to stop and ask for directions twice and soon realised he might as well have taken the train to Bexleyheath as Bexley. It had been difficult to tell on the map. He could now appreciate why Lizzie had settled on this particular new development. It was not that far from the old town centre. However, its clean air and green fields made it feel a million miles from London.

The rutted road surface, still unmetalled, had been baked hard by the sun. He couldn't remember the last time a cloud had blemished the azure sky. A pair of workmen, feet dangling from scaffolding, were smoking instead of plastering. They watched in silence as Johnny plodded past. He hadn't felt like eating after talking to Stella and was therefore wilting almost as much as the cornflowers he had bought for Lizzie.

Matt had already planted the front garden of the gabled semi. Young rose bushes filled a border that had been dug along the wall which separated the plot from the newly laid pavement. A couple of pink hydrangeas dominated another border below the bay window. Between the borders, the large square pegged out with string was destined to be a lawn. Alyssum and lobelia lined the path, their alternating white and blue flowers like bunting left over from George VI's coronation.

Johnny, aware of the twin trickles running down his sides, paused in the shade of the red-tiled porch. The lack of noise was unnerving. He turned to assess the view. The identical mock-Tudor house across the road was still unoccupied. Would he choose to live here, even if he could afford to do so? Hardly. He would go bananas. Perhaps it was just as well he seemed destined never to be a family man.

He rapped on the door. After a minute he did so again and peered through the stained glass. He detected no sign of movement. No one came.

Johnny walked down the side of the house towards the garage, which was also gable-ended. The kitchen door, which smelled of fresh paint, was wide open, but the room was empty. He continued round the corner of the house.

Matt was at the bottom of the garden with his shirtless back to him. Johnny opened his mouth then closed it again. His friend was oblivious to everything except the spade, the soil and the sun. Sweat poured off him.

“A policeman's lot is not a happy one
.
”

Johnny started guiltily. “My God! You're enormous!” He put his arms around Lizzie and kissed her.

“Leave my wife alone and get your arse over here.” Matt, his blond hair stuck to his forehead, rested his foot on the spade. His flat stomach rippled as he caught his breath.

“I'm an invalid. Got to rest my cracked ribs. Doctor's orders.”

“What the hell are you doing here then?”

“To see you, of course. What else?”

“Charming. And it's good to see you too,” said Lizzie irritably. “I wouldn't have got up if I'd known.”

“You know I'm only kidding.” He gave her the flowers.

“Thank you. Come in. You look like you need a drink.”

Johnny, as though seeking his permission, glanced in Matt's direction. His friend waved a hand dismissively and resumed his digging.

Lizzie filled the kettle and set it on the stove. She placed both of her hands in the small of her back, pushed her shoulders back and, with a groan, stretched her spine.

“I can't wait for the little stranger to arrive.”

“Two weeks will soon pass.” Johnny hung his jacket on the back of the chair.

“That's easy enough for you to say. There's nothing like being in the family way to teach you about male chauvinism. Men either treat you like an invalid or assume giving birth requires no more effort than it does for a hen to lay an egg.”

“False analogy,” said Johnny. “You did the laying months ago. The egg's about to hatch.”

“What would you know about it?” The unexpected sharpness of her tone made Johnny flush. Her jibe was more accurate than she realised.

It wasn't so long ago that he'd have sworn on his life that he was in love with Lizzie. Now, looking back at his infatuation, he could see that he had actually been in love with what lay between her and Matt. He'd been besotted by the whole idea of romantic love – and then he'd found it with Stella. Or at least thought he had. Perhaps it was merely the last of his illusions to be shattered. God did not exist. Good was not stronger than evil. All men were not equal. The truth was not more powerful than lies. Love did not conquer all . . .

“I'm sorry,” said Lizzie. “Don't pay any attention to me. I've been surprised how much I dislike being pregnant. It peeves me to have my frailties underlined.”

“You're one of the strongest people I know,” said Johnny.

“That kettle boiled yet?” Matt burst into the kitchen. Heat seemed to radiate off him. He went over to the sink, filled a mug with water, emptied it in one go, and got a refill. Johnny watched his bobbing Adam's apple.

“Get out of here,” said Lizzie. “You stink.”

“I thought you liked it when I was hot and sweaty.”

“And look what happened! Go on, I'll bring it out to you.”

She went to the window and watched her husband return to what would become his vegetable patch with a mixture of amusement and annoyance.

“So, don't sit there like a sphinx – tell me all the gory details.”

“About what? My assault, or my so-called secret admirer?”

“I've read about those already – and I can see the evidence for myself. I do keep tabs on you, you know. After all, I don't have much else to do these days and Matt, with a bit of gentle prodding, keeps me informed.” She sat down with a sigh. “You're an open book, Johnny. Always have been to me. You wear your heart on your sleeve – which is why it gets broken. What's happened now? Did Stella say no?”

“I didn't even get the chance to ask her. When I invited her out to lunch today she told me she was seeing another man.”

“And you believe her?”

“Why on earth would she lie about something like that? She knows how much I love her.”

“Precisely. It is possible to love someone too much.”

“Balderdash. I refuse to accept that for a second. You either love someone totally or not at all. Besides, Stella spent the weekend in Brighton with a man.”

“Oh.” The news came as no surprise to her, but what could she say? On the two occasions that she had met Stella – at the pictures and at a boxing match – she had struck her as a woman with an eye for the main chance who would only stick with Johnny for as long as it suited her. However, she had kept her counsel and hoped, for his sake, to be proved wrong. Unfortunately it seemed that Johnny had picked the wrong woman – yet again.

“Still think she was telling fairy stories? Don't move. I'll make the tea.” He got up and poured boiling water into the teapot.

“You didn't warm it first.”

“We're in the middle of a bleeding heatwave.”

“And don't I know it. Some nights I've hardly been able to sleep – especially with that lump next to me.” She nodded in Matt's direction. “Did Stella tell you about Brighton?”

“No, her mother did. But when I asked Stella about it she didn't contradict me – or Dolly. Her parents were going out of their minds over the weekend. It was completely out of character for Stella to go off like that. She told them she was staying with a female friend on Friday night but later telephoned to say she had decided to extend her stay.”

“It doesn't exactly sound like a dirty weekend, does it?” Lizzie rested her hands on her bump. “Where's the man come into it?”

“He called her parents and her office on Monday morning.”

“I presume you don't know who he was?”

“I wish I did. I'd soon get some answers out of him.” He caught her pensive expression. “So you accept that someone else is involved now?”

“Yes – but my feminine instinct tells me that it's not how it looks. Or rather, not how Stella wants it to look.”

“You mean she wants shot of me so badly that she's set up a fall guy? This isn't the movies.”

“Don't take this the wrong way . . .”

“Why does anyone ever say that? As soon as the words are said, offence is guaranteed.”

“Shut your cakehole and listen.” She heaved herself on to her feet and lined up two cups and saucers along with the mug that Matt had already used. She fetched a bottle of milk from the new Frigidaire. Johnny was strangely comforted by the fact that she still remembered how he took his tea. She had given herself enough time to rephrase what she had to say.

“When I said that you can love someone too much, I meant that sometimes the loved one comes to resent their lover's feelings. They can be a burden” – she took a deep breath – “especially if they are not returned to the same degree.”

“All relationships are unequal. There's always a kisser and the kissed.”

“Bingo!” She clapped her hands. “That's all I meant.”

“The first time we ever went out she talked about ‘holy padlock'. I honestly thought that she wanted me to propose. Over the past six months we've become closer and closer.”

“That's not a long courtship, Johnny. Matt and I went out for three years.”

“I know. I was there.”

“How could I forget?” She smiled and took his left hand in both of hers.

“I've always been the kisser not the kissed. I guess that's the role of a man.”

“Not necessarily. I'm the kisser in this marriage.”

“I don't think Matt would agree.”

“Maybe not – but remember: I chose him. And he did give me the choice.”

“You mean whether or not to accept his proposal?”

“That came later. He told me that if I wanted you instead of him he wouldn't stand in your way.”

“He's never told me!”

“Well, think about it. He wouldn't, would he? He's always had your best interests at heart. The way you stood by him after he told you we were getting engaged just proved to us both that you're a good man. Even if Stella has decided that you're not the right man for her, believe me, someone else will soon see what a catch you are.”

“I'll be thirty-one next month.” Where had his life gone?

“The best is yet to come. Why don't you take Matt his tea? I'll find a vase for the cornflowers before they give up the ghost completely.”