Her cheeks were glowing red, wet with tears. With a little distraught gesture she drew her hair across her eyes. Henry came and sat down beside her.
‘You are—so kind—Look, you are sitting on my hat.’
‘I’m so sorry!’
The woman, receiving her crushed hat from Henry’s apologetic hand, shifted a little away from him, wriggling her coat back off her shoulders, extracted her handbag from behind her and with a quick nervous movement, turning her head away, began to dab powder onto her nose and cheeks. The cosmetic smell, the cheeks red and shiny with weeping, now coated with pale pink face powder, all suddenly so absurd, so close, made Henry’s head swim. He felt awful pity, for her, for Sandy. The little instinctive defensive gesture with the powder touched his heart. She turned to him again, and with the hasty powder, the lip sticked mouth, the pencilled eyebrows, she looked like a doll, like a clown. Sandy’s girl,
In fact she could not be very young, doubtless over thirty. She was plump and not tall. A frilly blouse, not perfectly clean, was stretched over a large bosom. One button had already given way. He could see her breasts heaving quickly. Her face was round with a heavy jaw line and a big prominent chin. The sticky red mouth was full-lipped beneath a faint moustache and rather small, the nose wide, with flared nostrils and assertively retrousse. Her eyes were large, round, set far apart, of an obscure darkish blue, and her hair, a bright brown, was arranged in a shaggy bob. The face was tired, experienced, certainly not the face of youth. Two deep lines framed the mouth. She presented herself now to Henry with a kind of desperate boldness.
‘May I know your name?’
‘Stephanie.’
‘I mean your—’
‘Stephanie Whitehouse.’
‘It is—Miss Whitehouse?’
‘Yes, I—I was never married—only—like with Sandy, and he never—you see, I’m not his sort and I never expected he’d marry me—I’m like out of the—not good enough for him—and I never thought—’
‘But he lived with you for years?’
‘Well—we were—He kept it a secret. I expect he was ashamed of me, he must have been. But he did say I could have the flat if anything happened—’
‘Of course you shall have the flat!’ said Henry. ‘I’ll make it over to you. Don’t worry, please. And as for his feeling—why that’s ridiculous—you mustn’t feel in any way—You must let me help you.’
‘Oh, you are so kind—I can sort of manage, I’ve always had to—’
‘But Sandy supported you?’
‘Well, yes, he was very good about that.’
‘I should hope so. But what are you living on now?’
‘Well, I get my National Assistance and—’
‘I’ll look after you,’ said Henry.
She closed her eyes and turned away with a little gasp. She was fumbling for her handkerchief, tears streaked the pink powder. Henry got up.
‘You mustn’t,’ she said. ‘It’s too much. I can get a job. I would have only I haven’t been too well since the abortion.’
‘The abortion?’
‘Yes, I got pregnant, only Sandy didn’t want the child so we got rid of it.’
‘Oh—’ Henry’s mind reeled. Would an illegitimate child of Sandy’s have inherited the property? How perfectly extraordinary everything was which was happening to him now. Henry, noticing himself, found that he was exhilarated but had no time to ask himself why.
‘What is your job?’ he asked. ‘I mean, what was it?’
‘Well, I used to—I’m an orphan, you see, and I never had proper school. I ran away when I was fourteen and came to London. I came to Piccadilly Circus, it was the only place I’d heard of in London. And then—you’ll think I’m awful—I became a stripper.’
‘You mean a dancer?’
‘Well, if you call it dancing. I used to—the men were so awful. I was frightened all the time—you had to do—what they told you—so then I became a—’
‘You became a prostitute?’
‘Yes. Now you won’t want to—’
‘Miss Whitehouse, please. I respect you absolutely, I beg you to believe me—’
‘It was an awful life.’
‘I’m sure it was. I regard you as a victim. But how did you meet Sandy?’
‘He saw me at the strip club.’
This sudden image of Sandy sitting in the darkness watching Miss Whitehouse undress touched Henry’s heart with an awful thrill of truth. It was in some weird way the nicest thing that he had ever imagined about his brother. Sandy, the stranger, was there in that scene which Henry now in an instant pictured so vividly, the stuffy room, the silent staring men, the awkward vulnerable naked girl.
‘I was younger and thinner when I started, I was beautiful once so they said. You see I put on weight and—’
‘So Sandy—got to know you, and—’
‘He saw me, then we met again later on. He saved me really, I suppose. I don’t know what would have become of me if Sandy hadn’t cared.’
‘And he loved you.’
‘He said I was the femme fatale type. I think he was pleased that I was, like, what I was—’
‘Poor Sandy,’ said Henry, to himself. The loneliness, the deadness of the dead. He felt touched fascinated curiosity, but a kind of shame prevented him from questioning her further, even now told him that he ought to go, to reassure her and then to go.
‘But of course I didn’t know if he’d have gone on caring. I lost my looks, and when you aren’t married to a man you have no security, and I was always scared he’d just say it was over.’
Her voice, with a slight Midlands accent, had a deep coaxing caressing rhythm which sounded all the time like some desperate pleading. Perhaps she had talked like that with the men who—And then there had been Sandy and of course she was not his sort and she never expected him to marry her—
‘Miss Whitehouse, I must go, I feel I am an intruder here.’
‘Oh please don’t go!’ Her hand was fluttering nervously at her breast, seeking to do up the errant button.
‘No, no, this is your flat, your property. And I hope that you will allow me to give you some financial assistance. After all—’
‘Please don’t go! I’m so glad you’ve come. I’ve been so anxious, I thought I might get a letter from a lawyer I tidied up so like I wasn’t here. I felt I oughtn’t to stay but I had nowhere else to go. We hadn’t any friends, you see. I just saw about him in the newspapers, and I’ve had no one to talk to. I lived like a prisoner, really, Sandy never liked—He was that jealous, he’d ring up all the time to be sure I was here—’
Sandy full of jealousy. Full of guilt too no doubt. Henry felt wild confused pity for both of them.
‘Don’t worry, Miss Whitehouse, don’t worry about anything now, I don’t want you to worry about anything—’
‘But you will see me again, tell me what I’m to do—?’ The big red-rimmed dark blue eyes looked up at him timidly, submissively, the little rhythmic coaxing voice pleaded. Henry thought, this woman must have made old Sandy feel like a rajah.
‘Of course I will.’
‘I loved him so much.’
‘Please don’t cry again—’
‘I won’t be a nuisance, I’ll get a job, of course I don’t mean that job—’
‘No, of course not. But what—er—else can you do?’
‘Well, nothing really, but—’
‘Don’t worry—and, Miss Whitehouse, don’t run away, will you—I mean what I say, I’ll look after you. I want you to stay here.’
‘Oh thank you, thank you—’
‘Now I must go.’
‘You said something about—I hate to ask for money, but I’m down to my last—’
‘Oh of course, I’m so sorry—Look, I’ll give you a cheque. Here, will this keep you going?’
‘Oh, that’s far too much! I only meant—’
‘Nonsense, here, take it. I’ll—I’ll ring you. Let me just note the telephone
number. Now you won’t go away, will you, you promise?’
‘Oh I promise, yes! Thank you so much, you have given me new hope! You will come again, please?’
‘Yes, I will—very soon—I’ll telephone you—I’ll help you in any way I can—I give you my word—I’m so glad to have met you—I mean—’
Henry scudded towards the door followed hastily by Miss Whitehouse. They stood a moment together in the little hall. Henry held out his hand, then in a flurry of awkwardness took hold of her hand and bowed a little as if to kiss it, but did not do so. His head brushed the tight front of the frilly blouse, he felt a few hairs tangle on a button. He glimpsed fingernails, cracked and covered with flaking pink enamel. Her hand was small and plump and smelt of cosmetics.
Then Henry was outside, running. He passed the lift and flew light-foot down the stairs. He ran all the way to Harrods and sprang up the steps into the men’s department. He walked springily about on the thick carpet looking at himself in mirrors. A warm cauldron of emotions bubbled within him. He felt frenzied compassion, desire, triumph, wild amusement. He felt kingly self-satisfaction. As he began to calm down he bought himself four very expensive shirts.
Lucius, packing his suitcase, thought: they are all of them young, concerned with a young future. Only I am old and have an old future of illness and pain and solitude and death. Even Gerda is healthy and energetic and full of projects and full of will. And now, just when I should have thought she might have needed me, she is sending me away, and perhaps Henry will not allow me to come back. His false teeth were hurting him. He had a pain in his chest. A tear came into his eye and he mopped it off into the hairs on the back of his hand.
Audrey had grudgingly accepted his proposed visit. Audrey’s husband Rex treated Lucius as an old man and clearly regarded him as an old bore. Timmie and Robbie were at home so there would be ceaseless noise. Lucius could not communicate with children. He would not be able to work, so there was no good taking his manuscript. Besides, he might lose it. His bedroom would be unheated, he would have to sit with the family and watch their choice of television. There was nowhere to go for a walk. He would have to go out to the public library and write haiku. The consolations of art at least remained to him in his old age. He was experimenting further with rhymes.
Cruel the daffodils.
Every springtime kills.
I perish faster, faster.
Ah. The young master.
Gerda, looking from the terrace to see if Henry was in view in the garden, suddenly saw Sandy’s green Jensen emerge from the stables and flash away along the drive. A few minutes later the ERA, towed by a Land Rover, emerged and bumped slowly off. Gerda recognized the Land Rover as belonging to the garage man and car salesman in Laxlinden. Evidently Henry had decided to sell Sandy’s cars. He had said nothing to her about it. Nor had he consulted her about the fate of Sandy’s papers. Gerda had watched tight-lipped as Rhoda had carried out boxes of stuff to the bonfire.
Henry had become a little more communicative, a little less sulky. Returned from taking Colette home on the night when they fell in the lake, he had described with animation the scene with the punt, Colette’s desperate plunge, his own unheroic role. They had all laughed. Henry had shown more gaiety and ordinary human friendliness than at any time since his return, and Gerda’s heart stirred with timid hope. After his recent visit to London he had seemed to her even more cheerful. But he still remained somehow secretive and detached. He often disappeared. He had had two long sessions with Merriman, and the solicitor had left on each occasion without seeing Gerda. Henry had also gone over again to Dimmerstone, he said to look at the state of the cottages. (The Marshalsons owned Dimmerstone.) Gerda wondered if he had been to the churchyard.
Henry, who had walked over to the post office at Laxlinden to buy stamps for several very important letters, turned round to find Colette Forbes just behind him.
‘Why, hello, water nymph!’
‘Hello, hero.’
‘None the worse for your dip in the lake?’
‘Of course not!’
‘May I buy you a stamp?’
‘How generous. I’ve got one.’
‘May I walk back with you?’
‘What about the yellow Volvo?’
‘How did you know about the yellow Volvo?’
‘You gave me a lift in it the other night.’
‘Oh yes, so I did, I’d quite forgotten.’
‘Anyway, you’re famous in these parts. Everyone is talking about you and your doings. Didn’t you know?’
‘One prefers not to know such things. As a matter of fact it was such a lovely day I thought I’d walk, like the pigeon.’
‘What pigeon?’
‘Any pigeon.’
‘Did you know you’d got an American accent?’
‘Yes. Who was that young man we passed?’
‘Giles Gosling, the architect. He’s making—’
‘What is he making?’
‘Sorry. Daddy said he was making Sandy’s tombstone. He’s a stone cutter in his spare time.’
‘How is your pa?’
‘Cross.’
‘With you?’
‘Yes. He thinks I’m not grateful enough for the liberation of women.’
‘Women aren’t liberated yet, thank God.’
‘He thinks I should have an occupation.’
‘You have. Being female.’
‘Is being male an occupation?’
‘No.’
‘I suppose I shall have to get a job.’
‘What can you do?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Excellent girl.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘What do you mean, what am I going to do?’
‘If being male isn’t an occupation, what occupation are you going to take up?’
‘Painting.’
‘Really? How marvellous! I didn’t know you—’
‘I don’t. I’m doing it by proxy. I’m writing a book about a painter. You wouldn’t have heard of him. Max Beckmann. He liked goddesses and prostitutes. Not schoolgirls.’
‘I’m not a schoolgirl!’
‘Then why do you wear your hair in a plait like that? You look ten.’
‘You look a hundred. You’ve got grey hairs.’
‘I haven’t!’
‘Well, one anyway.’
‘So there’s nothing to choose between me and Lucius Lamb.’
‘I like Lucius Lamb.’
‘Why are you so aggressive?’
‘Why are you? Here’s the turning to Pennwood. Will you come and see Daddy?’
‘No. He despises me.’
‘He doesn’t.’
‘He does. Good-bye.’
‘Why are you going that way? The gate’s padlocked.’
‘I know, stupid. I’m going to climb over it.’
‘Then I shall come along and see you climb over it.’
‘Who lives in those converted cottages by the pub?’
‘Giles.’
‘Giles?’
‘Giles Gosling, the architect.’
‘I hear your father has bought the Oak Meadow.’
‘Yes. I hope you don’t mind?’
‘Why the hell should I mind?’
‘He isn’t going to build on it.’
‘Pity. I think everybody should build on everything.’
‘Here’s your gate.’
Henry climbed over the gate, not in haste, taking care with his trousers as he swung over the top. He descended on the other side and stood holding the bars and looking through them at Colette. The sun was shining between stripes of yellow cloud out of a pale blue sky. Blackbirds and thrushes were singing in concert. Colette was wearing a flimsy smock dress with a pattern of tiny green and blue flowers upon it. She had pulled her plait of hair forward over her shoulder and was holding the end of it in her hand.
‘Good-bye, water bird.’
‘Good-bye, Squire.’
r /> Henry began to walk slowly along between the fir trees, listening to the birds singing and feeling the moist warmth of the spring sunshine and thinking about Stephanie Whitehouse.
Lucius puffed down the stairs with his suitcase and put it down in the hall and dropped his overcoat across it. He wondered whether he should take his straw hat. The weather could become hot and he got terrible headaches if he failed to shade his eyes. If he took the straw hat he would have to wear it on the journey. His cap could be packed, but not the straw hat. Or perhaps Rex could lend him a hat? But Rex’s head was certainly smaller than his, after all poor Rex was bald. Sheer despair at the idea of the disagreeable journey and the annihilation of his accustomed world overwhelmed him. Coming down the stairs had made him giddy. He felt thoroughly ill and wanted to lie down. He collected his cap and his straw hat from the cloakroom and put the hat on his head and pocketed the cap. He lifted the telephone to ring for the village taxi to take him to the nearest station. There was no afternoon bus.
Gerda came out of the drawing-room. ‘What do you think you’re doing? And why are you wearing your straw hat?’
‘I am telephoning for a taxi,’ said Lucius in a ringing voice.
‘Why? Why aren’t you having your rest?’
‘BECAUSE I AM GOING TO AUDREY’S.’
‘Don’t shout,’ said Gerda. ‘I’d forgotten it was today.’
‘Oh had you! You order me to go away thereby inconveniencing me and my sister very much indeed and then you haven’t even enough concern and enough courtesy to remember when I’m going!’
‘Have you been drinking?’
Like a wraith light-footed Henry, entering from the front door, passed between them and flew up the stairs two at a time. His skipping footsteps could be heard receding along the landing in the direction of Queen Anne.
‘Come in here,’ said Gerda, ‘I want to talk to you.’
‘I shall miss the bloody train.’
‘Come in here.’
Lucius took off his straw hat and threw it on the floor and kicked it. He followed Gerda into the drawing-room and closed the door noisily.
‘How dare you speak to me like that in front of my son!’ Gerda, her dark hair pulled austerely back into the big tortoise-shell slide, her eyes glowing, her pale broad face thrust forward, her large nose wrinkled with anger, confronted him, practically stepping on his feet.