A Temporary Life, page 16
‘Fancy a snitch?’
He holds up a bottle as well as a glass.
‘Damn cold these evenings: closing in.’
He sees the racket.
‘Been playing tennis, sport?’
‘That’s right.’
‘One of my games.’ He indicates, in addition to a racket, a set of golf clubs propped up in a stand against the wall. ‘Badminton. Squash. Might play you one evening, if you’ve got the time. The local technical college has a damn good court.’
He indicates a chair in front of the fire.
He waits while I sit. ‘Hoping to catch you, you know, last night.’
He holds out the glass.
‘Damn difficult at times in a house like this.’
He drains his own glass at a single throw, the head tossed back, the eyes half-closed.
He gives a gasp.
‘Fancy another?’
I hold mine up.
‘Good hunting, sport.’
He’s been through several ‘snitches’ it seems already.
There’s a line of sweat across his brow.
‘Living alone?’
I nod my head.
‘Same here. Only been in a couple of months.’
He takes out a cigarette case from his jacket pocket.
I offer him one of mine.
‘That’s very decent. Been trying to give them up, you know.’
He takes the light, puffs out for a while, then settles back.
‘Keep in trim. Our age, you know, it becomes essential.’
He’s nearly fifty; lines fan out from the corners of his eyes. His teeth are white, browning, however, around the edges: one or two at the back are missing. His nails are long, and neatly trimmed.
‘Hear you were something of a sport yourself.’
He indicates several photographs hanging by the mirror; there’s a red-haired figure in tennis shorts standing by a net; another red-haired figure, somewhat older, stands with an oar beside a boat. Another, its arms folded, poses smilingly beside a hurdle; another stands posed, a javelin in its hand, beside a wooden fence.
‘Not so long ago, by all accounts.’
His eyes have grown a little brighter.
‘There’s a poster in one of the pubs in town. I noticed it,’ he says, ‘the other night. Freestone versus Corcoran. I saw him fight, you know, in London. Gave one of these American light-heavies a damn bad time.’
He swallows his drink.
‘Beat him?’
‘I’ll have to look it up.’
He laughs.
‘Can always tell a sport.’ He taps his head. ‘Doesn’t talk about it: goes and does it. Not many of us left.’
He reaches to the bottle: perhaps my presence is all the licence he requires. He holds it out: I shake my head.
‘In the same line of business still?’
‘Teaching,’ I tell him.
‘A teacher?’ he says.
He puckers his lip.
‘Damn nice if you can get it, pal.’
He’s had some experience of this, perhaps, himself. He swallows his drink.
‘What was the word you wanted to have?’
He runs his stiffened forefinger along either side of the red moustache. For a moment, it seems, he might take it off, reveal some different character entirely.
‘It’s none of my concern, old man. And far be it from me to interfere.’ He narrows his eyes. ‘Just shoot me down if you think I’m wrong. But did you know,’ he says, ‘you were being watched?’
‘Where?’
‘In the house, old man. The flat.’ He gestures up. ‘And I’ve a damned good idea,’ he says, ‘in the street as well.’
‘I’m being followed?’
‘It’s no concern of mine, old man.’ He looks at his glass. ‘I thought I’d mention it. Just in case.’
‘It’s very good of you,’ I say.
He looks across.
‘These H.P. people get up to all sorts of tricks. You don’t have to tell me, old man. I know.’
He sips at the glass which, from where I’m sitting, appears to be empty.
‘He’s out here, I can tell you, every night. And I’ve seen him a time or two,’ he says, ‘during the day as well.’
‘How’s he dressed?’
‘A trilby hat, old man. You can tell them at a glance.’
‘A belted raincoat.’
‘That’s the one.’
He seems quite pleased. He nods across.
‘Thought it was me, at first, old man.’ He taps his chest. ‘Not that there’s anything at present, mind.’
He puffs briskly at the cigarette.
‘Nowadays, you know, you can never tell. They nab you for something before they even tell you they’ve made it an offence.’
‘I know.’
‘I won’t have to tell you, sport,’ he says.
I get up from the chair.
‘Could be the divorce, you know, old man.’ He adds, ‘Of course, it’s no concern of mine.’
‘I don’t think,’ I tell him, ‘it could be that.’
‘It could be someone else’s wife.’
He waits.
‘Wanting a divorce?’
‘Looking for evidence, old man. I’ve had it happen to me, I can tell you that.’
He looks across.
‘Meet some lady – quite charming; go along: make no demands – find she’s after evidence, old man. When it’s far too late you find you’re Mr X. Subpoenaed. I’ve had it happen to me, old man.’
‘She’s providing evidence, you mean.’
‘Protecting the one she really wants. I’ve known it happen, old man. Take my advice.’
His finger travels slowly along the underside of the red moustache.
‘Doesn’t say much for the husband, sport. There’s always collusion in a thing like this. He’s usually too high-powered to provide evidence himself. Result: gets the little lady to do it for him.’
‘I see what you mean.’
‘Just thought I’d mention it, old man.’
He holds up the bottle.
‘Another snitch before you go?’
He pours it out.
‘Once bitten in these things: you get to know. Becomes second instinct, so to speak.’
‘Are you sure it’s me? Not someone else.’
‘Seen the way he watches the place, old man. They’ve no imagination, I can tell you that.’
I finish the drink.
‘And the way he regards your visitors. The lady in the fur hat especially, sport.’
‘I see what you mean.’
‘I’ve seen it happen before, old man. Been the ruin of many a better man than I.’
‘You think I ought to thump him, then?’
‘Assault and battery, old man: get damages as well.’
He taps his eye.
‘What course of action,’ I ask him, ‘do you recommend?’
‘Confrontation, old man. It’s always best.’
‘With the trilby hat, you mean.’
‘With the lady, old man. Take my advice.’
‘Supposing she denies it.’
‘They never do, old man. In too deep. Beg for mercy, and things like that.’
‘The evidence’s already there, you mean.’
‘Precisely, old man.’ He taps his head.
‘I could put her onto you,’ I tell him.
‘Not me, old man.’
He gets up from the chair.
‘I only mentioned it as a favour, sport.’
‘After all, you’ve witnessed it,’ I tell him.
‘Not me, old sport. I’d deny it to anyone else.’ He smiles.
‘I’ll have to fight it on my own.’
‘I was only doing you a favour, sport. I’ve seen it happen before, you see.’
‘So you said.’
‘One sport to another.’
‘I know what you mean.’
I cross over to the door.
‘The difficulties start with the employers, old man. Particularly the professions. They don’t like to see it happen. Not good for the firm, a name in court. Not good for the school.’ He nods his head.
‘It was good of you to mention it,’ I tell him.
‘I wouldn’t see it happen to a dog, old man.’
He holds the door.
‘Let me know when you’re free, and we’ll fix up a date.’ He indicates the racket. ‘Not got the shots I used to have, but I’ll give you a damn good run.’ He laughs. ‘Not a golfing feller, I take it?’
‘I can never find the time.’
‘Know what you mean, old man.’ He winks.
He waits while I reach the turn of the stairs.
‘See you, old man,’ he calls and, looking up to the landing, he gives a wave.
I wave the racket back.
He disappears.
I climb up to the room. The door’s unlocked.
Rebecca’s sitting on the floor inside, smoking, her head against the wall.
Her figure’s lit up by the glow from the landing.
‘Don’t put on the light,’ she says. ‘I’m used to the dark.’ I close the door.
‘I didn’t notice the car,’ I say.
‘I didn’t park it outside,’ she says.
‘And the door wasn’t locked?’
‘I picked it with a pin.’
‘Are you entitled to do that?’
‘It was locked when I came. I got tired of waiting, I suppose,’ she says.
A faint light, reflected from the street lamps below, comes through the window. Her figure, mounded against the wall, has begun to stir.
‘Do you want a drink?’
‘You’ve nothing in.’
‘A cup of tea?’
‘Your milk’s run out.’
‘Have I anything left?’
She shakes her head.
‘You don’t keep house too well,’ she says.
‘Won’t your mother be expecting you?’ I ask.
‘She’s often out,’ she says, ‘herself.’
She indicates the drawing, faintly visible on the wall, above her head.
‘I see you’ve hung it up,’ she says.
‘Did you really pick the lock?’ I say.
‘You do it with a pin. I’ll show you if you like,’ she says.
She gets up from the wall and crosses to the door.
‘I’ll lock it,’ she says. ‘Then I’ll come back in.’
She shuts the door.
There’s the shuffling of her feet on the floor outside; a moment later the lock springs back.
Her head appears, silhouetted briefly against the landing light.
‘Shall I do it again?’
‘I’ll never feel safe in bed again.’
She comes back in.
‘It’s easy with a lock like that. I couldn’t do it with a new one, though.’
She shuts the door.
‘The ones at college are easier still.’
‘You could make a fortune,’ I tell her, ‘with a gift like that.’
‘I’ve already got a fortune, I suppose,’ she says.
‘From what?’
‘From policies. Endowments. Things like that.’
She comes over to the chair.
‘I thought Mr Hendricks was funny tonight.’ She sits down on the arm beside me. ‘I tried to put him off,’ she adds. ‘With all that calling. And then that trouble with Philip’s dog.’
She begins to laugh.
‘He thinks he’s so good. I could beat him stiff.’
‘I could do with you watching every night.’
‘You think so?’
‘I can’t beat him on my own,’ I tell her.
‘He’s so conceited.’
‘That’s half his charm, I suppose,’ I say.
‘Has Leyland been in touch?’ she says.
‘Not yet.’
I wait.
‘You should see his lip. When he came next day he could hardly speak.’
‘It might help him with his friends,’ I say.
‘Mummy was pleased. It made her laugh.’
She pushes her hand against my arm.
‘Did you really hit him hard?’ she says.
‘As hard as I could.’
‘He’ll get his own back.’
‘I suppose he will.’
‘Him and Fraser and Groves,’ she says.
‘They’re a sort of gang.’
‘With Daddy as well, I suppose,’ she says.
‘Will he intervene?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘I’d better watch out.’
‘You could run away.’
‘I suppose I could.’
‘If you had a place outside the town.’
‘They’d never find me there,’ I say.
‘I wouldn’t tell them, honestly,’ she says. ‘You could live out there, and come in each day with the morning-rush.’
‘And go out with the evening-rush at night.’
‘They can’t get you in a crowd,’ she says.
‘I could get up a gang,’ I tell her, ‘myself.’
She shakes her head.
‘They’ve miles more people than you,’ she says. ‘They’d pay them more, in any case,’ she adds.
‘I suppose they would.’
‘When his lip goes down he might forget.’
‘I hope you’re right.’
‘He’d one or two loose teeth, you see, as well. He was going to a dentist the following day.’
‘Once there,’ I tell her, ‘he wouldn’t forget.’
‘Not if he had them out,’ she says.
‘Time I was in bed,’ I say.
‘I suppose I ought to be going, then,’ she says.
She leans her head against my arm.
‘It’s so dark up there at night,’ she says.
‘I thought you liked it. In the house, I mean.’
‘So eerie. All those old houses. There’s supposed to be a ghost in ours. The Blue Lady. I thought I saw her the other night.’
‘Did you see her face?’
‘It was just a haze. She was killed during the Civil War, you know. Her lover was a Roundhead. Her husband,’ she adds, ‘a Cavalier.’
She moves her head.
‘The man who told us said he’d seen her one night when he was lying in bed. Apparently the Roundhead came to see her when her husband was away. He was calling up to the window when her husband suddenly returned. It was late at night. When he saw him there they fought a duel. The lover was killed. When the woman saw what her husband had done she opened the window and threw herself out. She was killed straight away when she hit the ground.’
‘Did the husband relent?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Which window was it?’
‘He didn’t say.’
‘You better keep your lights on when you drive up there tonight.’
‘Don’t worry,’ she says. ‘I always do.’
She gets up from the chair.
‘You don’t mind me coming up?’ she says.
‘Come up whenever you like,’ I say.
‘There aren’t many people you can talk to here.’ She gestures round. ‘I mean the town.’
‘If you don’t try their locks,’ I tell her, ‘you’ll never find out.’
She begins to laugh.
‘Honestly, you don’t mind me coming in? I could easily have waited outside,’ she says.
‘In future I shall always knock on the door,’ I say.
She goes to the door.
‘And honestly, next time: I’ll bring something up I can cook,’ she says.
2
‘This etching process,’ Hendricks says, ‘is scarcely used. It’s all silk-screen today. That and the occasional lithograph.’
He leans over the acid bath and wipes the bubbles from the copper plate with the tip of a feather. Part of the plate has been blacked-out; there’s a thin frieze of lines, each with its tiny rim of bubbles.
‘In twenty years there’ll not be one student in a hundred will even know the process. The whole thing,’ he adds, ‘is dying out.’
For a moment the tone is almost that of Wilcox; he leans on one elbow, his shoulder pushed up, his head inclined reflectively to one side. He seems unaware of the acid fumes. The brown smock he wears is stained with acid burns; there’s a broad smear of dried lithography ink, black, by each of the pockets: his bare legs and his plimsolls alone indicate that he’s changed already for his lunch-hour badminton at the technical college across the way.
The room itself resembles a chemistry lab; there are long bare tables, burnt by acid, stained by inks, and, at one end, against the wall, a variety of presses. The wall opposite the row of windows is draped with rectangular sheets of paper, each one stained with an irregular blob of ink; there’s a lack of definition, a vagueness about the room. The only student there is working at the silk-screen press, lowering the wooden frame and scraping on the colour.
Pollard has appeared at the opposite end, inside the door, a cigarette cupped in his hand; he smokes it quickly as he wanders by the tables, examining the silk-screen press for a moment, then coming across, wafting the smoke away with his other hand.
‘It’s not safe in that comon room,’ he says.
He comes up to Hendricks’s acid bath and peers inside.
‘What’s that?’
‘Went in a minute ago: lit up. There was Wilcox: hiding behind a cupboard.’
‘Hiding?’ Hendricks says. He wafts his feather.
‘Said he’d lost a paper. On his hands and knees. Half hidden, he was, by one of the chairs.’
‘What did he say?’
‘I nearly died. Said I’d confiscated it off one of the lads.’
He smokes it quickly, glancing at the door.
‘I’ve been teaching in the design room for half an hour. He never went past while I was there.’
‘Gestapo.’
‘I think he’s mad.’
‘Did he blow you up, then?’ Hendricks says.
‘I reckon he thought I wouldn’t see him.’
‘He’s checking up on the thieving,’ Hendricks says.
‘What thieving? There’s nothing to thieve in there.’
‘Those magazines.’
‘They’re twelve months out of date at least.’
Hendricks reaches into the acid bath with a pair of tongs: he carries the plate over to a sink in a corner of the room.
‘You should have pretended he wasn’t there.’
