A Temporary Life, page 19
Her mother and I get in together.
The attendant sits by Yvonne, his hand around her mouth.
We say nothing on the journey up.
We drive between the gates and only two hours later, when I’m leaving, do they ask to see the pills. I hand them in. They count them out.
‘She’s only had two,’ I say.
They tick the list; I go out to the hall: Mrs Sherman, dark-eyed, upright, is sitting on a bench.
I take her arm. We set off down the drive.
A street-lamp is burning by the empty gate; lamps light up the drive and the entrance to the house.
We wait by the gates for a local bus.
‘Do you think she’ll be all right?’ she says.
‘They say she’ll be all right,’ I tell her.
‘They know what they’re doing, I suppose,’ she says.
‘I’m not sure that they do,’ I tell her. ‘Not that it matters, anymore,’ I add.
‘Oh, but it matters, love,’ she says.
The bus comes into sight.
‘I can’t make it out. The chances that she’s had: it ends like this.’
‘That’s probably her trouble, on the whole,’ I say. ‘Not that it makes much difference. To Yvonne, I mean.’
4
‘You can take it in my office,’ Wilcox says.
He holds the door of the life room, allowing me to step outside then closing it carefully behind him.
As I reach the stairs leading to the hall he calls, ‘If it’s anything important, of course, you’ll let me know.’
‘Important?’
‘On the phone, I mean.’ He gestures irritably to the hall below.
As I go down the stairs I can hear his voice, bellowing from beyond the screens, ‘Is everybody gone on holiday, then? What’s going on in here, then, Pollard? The annual general bloody council of the desk-top somnambulists and chair-back heelers-overs’ union, is it?’
In his office, after closing the door, I pick up the telephone and hear the secretary’s voice at the other end and then, a moment later, a woman’s voice I don’t recognize at all.
‘This is Jacqueline Spencer,’ the voice reminds me. ‘We met briefly when you came up to the house to see Mrs Newman’s picture.’
She waits a moment for this to be confirmed.
‘We tried to get you over the week-end, but you seem to have been away. Mr Newman wondered if you’d like to meet him.’
‘Where?’
‘The most convenient place for him would be the site.’
‘What site?’
‘He’ll send a car to pick you up. Do you have a free day at all this week?’
She waits.
‘If you could give us a day he’ll be very glad to fit in with it,’ she says.
I tell her Wednesday.
‘I’ve got your address from Mrs Newman. There’ll be a car at your door at half-past nine.’
‘What’s it all about?’ I say.
‘The chauffeur will drive you there,’ she says. ‘He’ll be given his instructions’
The phone’s put down. I rattle my end of it for several seconds, listen, put it down, then look slowly round the office.
It’s only the third or fourth time I’ve been inside the room. Across one wall is arranged a set of shelves, crammed full of bottles containing a yellowish liquid. A door leads off at one side opposite the window; when I try the handle I find it’s locked.
I turn round to the door of the office itself and find Kendal standing there, his hands in his pockets.
‘I thought it was the Skipper,’ he says.
‘I’ve been taking a call.’ I indicate the phone.
‘That’s generous of him,’ Kendal says.
He takes out a note from his jacket pocket, unfolds it and holds it out for me to read. ‘Dear Kendal,’ it says, ‘I’d like to see you in my office some time today. Signed: R. N. Wilcox. (Principal)’
‘He’s probably inviting you to dinner.’
‘You think it’s that?’
‘Pollard’s been invited, too.’
‘I can breathe more easily, I suppose,’ he says.
He glances round the room.
‘Anything to steal? Borrow? Anything, you think, that won’t be missed?’
‘I’ve just been trying the door.’
‘It’s his private wash-room.’
‘Have you ever been in?’
‘Never.’
He opens the top drawer on one side of the desk. It’s packed to the top with india-rubbers. We both stare into it for several seconds.
‘What are those for?’
‘For rubbing out.’
‘But why so many?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
A footstep sounds from the hall outside. I close the drawer.
‘What’s going on in here, then? Mothers’ meeting?’
‘I’ve just received your letter, Principal,’ Kendal says. He holds it out.
‘I’ve just finished on the phone,’ I tell him.
‘From the Newmans was it?’
He gestures at the phone itself. Clearly he’s inquired about the caller’s identity before allowing me to answer it.
‘I’ve been asked to a meeting.’
‘Where?’
‘They’ve asked me, at the moment, to keep it confidential.’
‘With Mr Newman?’ He looks across.
‘That’s right.’
He gazes at me for several seconds.
‘You’ll give him my regards.’
‘I will.’
‘When’re you seeing him?’
‘Wednesday.’
‘Wednesday.’
He looks over impulsively to a calendar on the wall. For a moment I have the feeling he’s going to offer to come as well.
‘I’ll let you know how it goes,’ I tell him.
‘That’s good of you,’ he says.
I step over, cautiously, towards the door.
Kendal, the letter in his hand, remains standing by his desk.
‘I’ve just been complimenting Kendal on his work. I’ve heard one or two complimentary things about it recently,’ I tell him.
‘Kendal?’
‘He’d be a very valuable ally,’ I say, ‘if we had him on our side.’
‘Side?’
I close one eye.
‘In reference to that scheme we mentioned.’
‘Scheme.’
‘Vis-à-vis,’ I tell him, ‘things to come.’
I gesture vaguely at the college overhead.
‘I’ll leave you to it.’ I nod to Wilcox, nod to Kendal and, stepping outside, I close the door.
I can hear no sound at all, for several seconds; then, faintly, comes the growl of Wilcox as he begins to clear his throat.
I get out a cigarette, light it, and go up the stairs smoking, puffing out, as fast as I am able, huge, uncontrollable clouds of smoke.
‘Where were you at the week-end?’
‘I had an appointment,’ I tell her, ‘somewhere else.’
‘I called at the flat.’
‘I’m afraid I was out.’
‘So I discovered.’
She turns over, slowly, in the bed.
‘I don’t suppose Beccie’s been to see you.’
‘Beccie?’
‘Has she been,’ she says, ‘or not?’
‘She did call, as a matter of fact, one evening.’
‘I bet.’ She pulls up the bed clothes beneath her chin. ‘I hope you don’t encourage her. To come up here again.’
‘I don’t know,’ I tell her. ‘I suppose I might.’
‘Honestly. Can you imagine?’
‘I don’t suppose she’ll mind.’
‘You’re mad.’
‘Your husband,’ I tell her, ‘has invited me to meet him.’
‘I know,’ she says, and adds, ‘I’m not surprised.’
‘What’s it all about?’ I ask her.
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘You must have some.’
‘He just wants to meet you, I suppose,’ she says.
‘It’s very strange.’
‘No stranger than some things, I suppose,’ she says.
‘Did you know,’ I tell her, ‘I’m being followed?’
‘Not by a man,’ she says, ‘in a trilby hat?’
‘You know all about it, then?’ I say.
‘Honestly,’ she says, ‘he’s watching me.’
She smiles. Her cheeks, smooth and taut, are slightly dimpled. The grey eyes, mascara-ed, gaze out from the hollow of the pillow with an eerie light.
‘It’s a little insurance my husband’s taken out.’
‘On what?’
‘On me.’
‘He’s having you followed?’
‘You’re very conceited, thinking it was just for you.’
‘I’m not sure what I think,’ I tell her.
‘What day have you arranged to see him, then?’
‘Wednesday.’
‘Did he arrange that,’ she says, ‘or you?’
‘I suggested it, I believe,’ I tell her.
‘That was our day,’ she says. ‘Had you forgotten?’
‘I arranged it for the morning: I can always see you,’ I say, ‘in the afternoon.’
‘Magnanimity!’ she says.
‘We could go together.’
‘My darling,’ she tells me, smiling, ‘this meeting, I’m afraid, is just for you.’
Later, as she’s leaving, she says, ‘I’ve been asked, by the way, to give you this.’
She holds out a parcel, thin and flat, inscribed with her husband’s name, which, on arrival, she’s laid down on the chair inside the door.
‘If you’re seeing him soon I wondered if you’d mind.’
‘What’s this?’ I ask her and begin to laugh. ‘Not carrying messages, too,’ I add.
‘It’s something he asked for.’ She shakes her head. ‘He’s not at home, you see, at present.’
She turns to the door.
‘Is our man still in the street?’ she says.
When I look down at the road there’s no one there.
‘Probably his day off.’ She laughs.
‘Or perhaps his mission’s been accomplished, Liz.’
She laughs again.
‘But darling, it’s hardly even started yet!’
I see her moments later as she steps out from the door; perhaps it’s Ferguson she’s aware of most: without expression she ducks her head, glances down the street towards the town, then sets off uncertainly in the opposite direction.
Seconds later the man in the trilby hat comes into view; his hands in his pockets, he wanders off, idly, not up the street, but, glancing lazily around him, in the opposite direction to Elizabeth, towards the town.
5
The car’s not the salmon-pink creation I’d been expecting but a dark blue Bentley. I see its number plate from the window: N N 1. The chauffeur with the peaked cap gets out from behind the wheel; he looks up at the house, looks at the numbers on either side, then steps up to the door.
The bell rings in the hall below.
There’s a murmur of voices. The bell rings again, this time in the flat.
Ferguson, his red hair dishevelled, is standing on the stairs.
‘I say, old man. There’s somebody for you.’
He waits, his hand on the banister, as I descend. He’s dressed in a yellow and mauve striped blazer.
‘The police,’ I say, and nod my head.
‘I say, old man,’ he says. ‘I’m terribly sorry.’
‘I’ve seen it coming,’ I add, ‘for days.’
‘I say, old man, there’s nothing I can do?’
‘Nothing, I’m afraid.’ I shake my head.
‘No messages to give?’
‘They’ve all been given.’
‘I’m sorry, old man, it’s come to this.’
He comes out to the step; he sees the car. His eyes narrow; he begins to frown.
The chauffeur nods his head, turns to the rear door of the car, and pulls it open. With the flat parcel beneath my arm I step inside.
There’s a second figure there: huge, massive, square-shouldered, he takes up more than half of the space available on the seat itself. He’s dressed in a dark overcoat. A morning newspaper is open on his knee.
‘Hi,’ he says. ‘Remember me? We met at Elizabeth’s the other week.’
The car, with the force of his laughter begins to shake.
Outside, Ferguson, smoothing down his hair, is gazing in. I wave.
He gestures back, uncertain. There’s a white handkerchief tucked in the top pocket of his blazer. He’s wearing a light blue tie, with a horse’s head outlined, in a creamish colour, immediately beneath the knot.
The chauffeur gets in behind the wheel.
‘Do you have the parcel, sir?’
I hold it up.
‘Is that for Neville?’ the broadly built man has said. I indicate the name inscribed on the dark brown paper.
‘I could have taken it up myself.’
‘No one knew you were coming today, Mr Fraser,’ the chauffeur says.
He starts the car.
‘You don’t mind me cadging a lift, then?’ Fraser says. ‘I asked Jackie to let you know. No doubt,’ he adds, ‘she clean forgot.’
He gets out a cigarette case.
The car moves off.
I get out the cigarette lighter with the coloured crest.
Ferguson, still smoothing down his hair, has waved. The mauve and yellow striped arm is raised.
‘A friend of yours, then?’ Fraser says.
‘A detective.’
‘Really?’
He turns in his seat to gaze through the rear window at the disappearing figure.
‘Dressed conspicuously,’ he says.
‘That’s part of his disguise.’
‘C.I.D. or private?’
‘C.I.D.’
‘First time I’ve seen one,’ he tells me, ‘dressed like that.’
I flick the lighter.
‘A new conception.’
He nods his head.
He dips the end of the cigarette in the bluish flame, then sees the monogram printed on the side.
‘Elizabeth’s?’
I light my own cigarette and snap it shut.
‘She left it behind,’ I say, ‘one night.’
The chauffeur’s head has turned; it gives an involuntary jerk. Fraser, however, has glanced behind, back down the street, as if he hasn’t heard.
‘No one, on the face of it, could suspect him of being one, I suppose,’ I say.
The figure behind us disappears.
The car dips down towards the valley.
‘What branch of the C.I.D. is your friend in, then?’ Fraser says.
‘Murder.’
‘Is there much of it goes on round here?’
‘More than is generally recognized,’ I say.
‘What case,’ he says, ‘is he dealing with at present?’
‘The death by strangulation of a man found on a tennis court,’ I tell him.
‘Hence, I suppose, his sporty get-up.’
‘That’s right.’
‘He looked more like part and parcel of a song and dance routine to me.’
‘The victim was fond of tap-dancing in his youth,’ I say.
‘Do you always take the piss out of everyone you meet?’ he says.
‘Invariably,’ I tell him.
He begins to laugh.
He weighs, by my reckoning, over sixteen stone: I wonder, if he swings one over in the car, which way I ought to move: one in the belly then one in the chops, then one on the nose to make it count. He’s muscle-bound, too; most of it, I suspect, has turned to fat.
‘Married, are you?’ He looks across.
‘I have been,’ I tell him, ‘for some considerable time.’
‘Children?’
I shake my head.
‘Working is she, then? Your wife.’
‘In hospital,’ I tell him.
‘Nothing serious, I hope.’
‘Went crazy,’ I say. ‘She’s been confined.’
He’s not sure, for a moment, which way to look; the driver’s eyes gleam back from the mirror then glance away.
The car turns westwards. The valley narrows; buildings creep in on either side.
Fraser, in a rather melancholic fashion, begins to bite his nails. He props one of his short, muscular legs across the other.
‘You teach in the local art school, then?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Any prospects?’
‘None whatsoever.’
‘Why do you stay on, if that’s the case?’
‘I don’t intend to,’ I tell him, ‘for very long.’
‘Has Neville offered you a job?’ he says.
‘None that I’m aware of. No.’
I glance into the mirror.
‘He did mention, however, that he’s looking for a chauffeur. He’s somewhat disenchanted,’ I add, ‘with the one he has at present.’
‘Did he tell you that?’
‘Strictly between ourselves,’ I say.
The car has slowed. The eyes, partly obscured by the neb of the cap, meet mine.
‘Relax, Bennings,’ Fraser says.
He gets out a cigarette: he offers it round the front to the driver.
‘No thank you, sir,’ the chauffeur says.
He taps the end of the cigarette himself: I get out the lighter, flick up the flame: his eyes, as he lights the cigarette, meet mine.
‘I wouldn’t mind, when the moment comes – as come,’ he tells me, ‘it undoubtedly will – pumping you in the mouth myself.’
‘Whenever you can find the time,’ I say.
‘They tell me,’ he says, ‘you used to box.’
‘On and off,’ I say, and smile.
‘I’ve done some fighting,’ he says, ‘myself.’
‘A size like that,’ I tell him, ‘I’m not surprised.’
I fold one leg across the other.
‘Targets of those proportions are hard to find.’
His own leg cocked up, he suddenly takes down.
He smokes his cigarette for a while in silence.
The road, a straight, concrete highway, has suddenly broadened. The speed of the car has suddenly increased. Odd trees, newly planted, have been set at irregular distances on either side.
We pass through a village. Rows of windowless cottages appear; men with picks and hammers are working on the walls; truncated, glassless windows look out onto overgrown fields: the low white profile of a glass-roofed concrete building appears briefly on the skyline of a moor beyond.
