‘Yes, that kind.’
‘It must be awful. There’s something rather attractive about it though, sort of exciting. You ought to write a novel about it, could be a best seller. It’s the sort of morbid stuff people want to know about. I wish I had your experience, it might get my stuff moving. Why not write a novel? Nun tells all. I bet there were goings-on in your convent, weren’t there?’
‘No.’
‘You’re blushing! Why did you leave, chucked out?’
‘No, I lost my faith.’
‘RCI suppose? I went to a ghastly convent school in France until I ran away. I never had any faith. Shitty sort of childhood. What are you doing now?’
‘I’m trying to get a teaching job, but -’
‘No luck? Unemployed like me. It’s a lousy society for creative people. Where do you live?’
‘Camden.’
‘What’s your local? I mean your local pub, God can’t you understand English?’
‘I haven’t got one.’
‘Haven’t got one? Oh well, it’s understandable. I’ll find you one. What’s your poison? Sorry, I mean what do you drink? I mean, like some people only drink Young’s beer or something.’
‘I drink wine -’
‘Ah, a wino! I love winos. Wine bars, I know hundreds. We might go on a wine crawl sometime. Anyway since you go to the Prince of Denmark we could meet there.’
‘I don’t go actually -’
‘Well, yer better make a start, hadden yer? We’re all on social security these days, got to stick together. Why not let’s meet at the old Prince this evening and I’ll take you to a dinkum wine bar in Hanway Street?’
‘I’m sorry -’
‘Of course I still don’t know why you’re here. I take things as they come. I’ve learnt to do that. The things that come are usually kicks in the teeth. At least you aren’t one as far as I can see, or are you?’
Anne was blushing again and felt a slight impulse to cry. She said, ‘I really came to ask you some rather tiresome questions.’ She had given up all hope of discreet indirect discovery. She could not tactfully elicit her information. She would have to bang it out. She felt unhappy and ashamed of her role. All the ferocious necessitous energy was gone from her.
‘Of course, why didn’t I think of it at once, Christ, I’m slow, you’re from the Social Service, you’re a do-gooder! Well, carry on, dear, there’s plenty of good you can do around here! Do you know, I still haven’t discovered how to get Supplementary Benefit?’
‘I’m afraid I’m not from the Social Service,’ said Anne.
‘Then I give up. Have some more wine. Have a bean.’
‘It’s about Tim -’
‘Oh him. What about Tim? You’re not an old flame of his by any chance? He had a lot of dotty Welsh girls. Are you Welsh?’
‘No. And I’m not -’
‘You don’t seem to be anything.’
‘I know you lived with Tim for years and years.’
‘Oh yes, forever.’
‘And you’re still living with him.’
‘Oh yes, oh sure! What’s your game, nun?’
‘Forgive me, I will explain. But please answer the question.’
‘Why don’t I throw you downstairs? I must be drunk.’
Anne moved her chair a little backward and put her mackintosh on her knee. She checked the position of the door. Daisy was still sitting at the table. She had been liberally refilling her glass.
‘You made a plan, didn’t you,’ said Anne, ‘that Tim should marry a rich woman and that you should go on living together on the money.’
‘Oh God!’ said Daisy. She drank off her glass and then stared calmly at Anne with her huge Etruscan eyes.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Anne, ‘I’m very sorry, but I must find out. Is it true or not?’
‘Why shouldn’t it be true?’ said Daisy with a cunning look.
‘Because it’s - impossible, it’s -’
‘Why do you ask then? God, you seem to have been here for hours. Life is full of impossible things, or didn’t they tell you that in your convent? If you ever were in a convent. Are you a private detective?’
‘No.’
‘I don’t think I like you after all.’
‘Do you deny it then?’
‘Do I deny it? I deny nothing! We made such a plan, yes.’
‘You - did - And you’re carrying it out, you’re still together?’
‘Just tell me one thing, mystery girl, why are you here? And answer me truly or I’ll clout you.’ Daisy got up quickly. Anne got up too and moved back behind her chair.
‘I’ll tell you the truth,’ said Anne. ‘I’m an old friend of Gertrude, Tim’s wife. I heard a rumour that you and Tim had made this - and you were still - and I wanted to find out if it was true-I didn’t know what to believe -’
‘Oh believe what you please! Yes, of course we’re living it up on Gertie’s money! So you’re an old friend of Gertrude’s, I see. Now I’ve got it. The intrusive old girl friend. You’re in love with Gertrude! That’s why you’re so filled with spite and envy, coming round here and insinuating things and asking questions! Tell bloody Gertrude to ask her own bloody questions! Get out! Jesus bloody Christ, as if I hadn’t enough trouble without being persecuted by jealous nuns suffering from sexual deprivation! Oh get out! And don’t show your mean little face in the Prince of Denmark or I’ll put a mark on it. Clear off, run!’
Anne ran. She half fell down the stairs, fumbled wildly with the door, and ran away panting down the street. It began to rain. Anne began to cry.
‘Have you been to Samuel Orpen yet,’ said Gertrude, ‘I forgot to ask.’
‘Yes, thanks,’ said Anne. ‘He filled the tooth. It’s quite all right now.’
‘He’s nice, isn’t he? Did you discover he was a Roman Catholic? I meant to tell you. A convert. Guy’s father was furious.’
‘I thought Guy’s father was sort of Christian.’
‘An Anglican atheist, hated God, but a bit sentimental about the old faith.’
‘Yes, I found out Mr Orpen was a Catholic. We talked about the Vatican.’
‘I wish a friend of mine was Pope. It would be such fun for him to emerge from behind the arras and say, “My dear, I’ve had an awful day, give me a drink at once!” ’
‘Yes -’ said Anne. ‘Yes.’
‘What have you done to your hand?’
‘It’s nothing.’
‘Do you like your cherry dress? It’s very Japanese. You look marvellous. You’re getting brown at last, well, pale biscuit. It suits your eyes.’
Anne was at Ebury Street. It was the next morning. Tim was away, he was on a shopping spree, buying paints and things, Gertrude said. Anne wondered if he was with Daisy. It would be so easy to be away a lot.
Anne had returned straight from Daisy to her flat and had found the Count, who knew of her errand, waiting outside the door. As she led him upstairs she felt what an ironically sad occasion it was for this urgent desire to see her. The Count was in a state of excitement, his usual dignity precariously at risk.
‘So you think it’s true?’
‘I think it may be trueish. There’s something.’
‘If there’s anything, then it’s a catastrophe.’
‘I agree. It’s the end.’
Anne said what she believed. She thought it possible that there had been some sort of vague conspiracy, and likely that Tim was still seeing Daisy. She had been impressed by a casual air of owning Tim which she thought that Daisy had somehow worn. Yes, there was something. And the Count was right, that was enough, the details did not matter. It was enough to be the end of Tim, the smash of her own hopes, the return of joy and light into Peter’s life. She thought, looking at him, if I loved him perfectly, would I not rejoice to see his face so changed.
The Count went to see Manfred. Anne did not go. She did not want to see Peter, Manfred, probably Moses, all excited and elated at what had occurred. Tim’s fall would grie
ve no one.
Anne felt private and grim. She wanted events to hurry now, she wanted the crash to be over. Of course, the evidence was ambiguous, not clear; but Anne’s impression was strong and she did not permit hope. In any case the matter had to be opened to Gertrude, the rumours were enough reason for that. She did not feel sorry for Gertrude. Whatever happened Gertrude would be blessed, she was under a lucky star. She did not feel sorry for Tim, her mind shied away from him, it looked like a messy nasty business. She felt a curious, confused sorrow about Daisy. The conspiracy, if there was one, must have been Tim’s idea. All the same, they were an ill pair.
Manfred talked with the Count, also with Moses Greenberg. They agreed that Anne should say something to Gertrude. They left it to Anne to decide how.
It was a sunny morning. London was hot and dusty, full of tired smells, perhaps the smells of Londoners’ dreams of the countryside. The Thames stank. Some sort of railway strike was on. Victoria Station was full of anxious ill-tempered travellers.
The drawing-room at Ebury Street smelt of tiger lilies, which Gertrude had been arranging. Gertrude had put the flowers on the marquetry table beside the drinks which had been reinstated there.
‘Aren’t they lovely? They always remind me of Alice.’
‘Yes.’
‘Is it too early for a drink?’
‘I won’t have a drink,’ said Anne. ‘I think I’m going to give it up again.’
‘Oh no!’
‘I think you all drink too much.’
‘Oh darling, don’t be so strict! Moses was here yesterday telling me to spend less money!’
‘I suppose Tim spends it,’ said Anne.
‘Oh stop knocking Tim! You always find something to say against the poor chap. Stop it! I’m feeling cheerful this morning and I won’t let you criticize anything or anybody. Do you know, we’re going to Greece! Tim’s never been there.’
With her hair cut shorter, now a chaotic brown mop, Gertrude looked very young. She had put on weight again, and kept looking at the sunburn upon her plump arm, bare from the elbow. The sun had cast a faint damson glow over her smooth browncomplexioned face. She was wearing a new smart much-pleated green and brown striped cotton dress. There was no doubt that she was spending money too.
‘Have you been to Greece, Anne, I forget?’
‘No.’
There was a slight pause while both women apprehended and passed by the thought that the natural: oh do come with us! could not follow.
Gertrude said randomly, ‘Would you like to come and see Tim’s latest paintings? He’s painting again now, I’m so glad, he paints every day.’
‘In a minute,’ said Anne.
They had been standing together by the mantelpiece, as they often stood when they talked in that room. Anne turned and went to the window. She looked down at the sunny street through sudden tears.
‘What’s the matter, darling?’ said Gertrude, with fear in her voice.
Anne touched the tears with her hand and turned. She felt grief for her awful role, almost that of an accuser or a judge, and for her own loss and because of an impending blank loneliness which had suddenly begun to swirl about her like a white mist. Would coming events deprive her of Gertrude too?
‘Anne!’ Gertrude would have come to her and embraced her, only Anne stayed her with a gesture.
‘It’s about Tim.’
‘Is he ill, hurt, has something happened and no one told me - ?’
‘No, he’s fine, he’s all right, nothing like that. Listen, Gertrude, there may be nothing in this, nothing at all, but Manfred and Moses and the Count think I should tell you something, well, perhaps you know it or some of it -’
‘What?’ Gertrude’s face had become stiff, wrinkled, almost ugly.
‘Let’s sit down,’ said Anne. She sat down on the sofa and Gertrude drew up a chair.
‘Quick, tell me, what - ?’
‘Well - Tim had a regular mistress for years, I expect you know about her, Daisy Barrett.’
Gertrude hesitated. She was wondering whether she should say, Oh, Daisy, yes, of course! But sheer cold fear and the awful expression of doom upon Anne’s face compelled the truth. ‘No.’
Anne let out a sigh. ‘Well, what I tell you now is a rumour, and there is some evidence for it. It is said that - Tim still has relations with this woman, or has had until fairly recently, and - the story is that they made a plan that he should marry a rich woman and that they should go on living together on her money.’
Gertrude glared at Anne. Then her face relaxed a little. She looked sternly. ‘I thought you had something serious to tell me.’
‘Isn’t this serious?’
‘No. You speak of a rumour, a story. What is this story? It cannot possibly be true, it’s just raving lunacy.’
‘I thought that at first, but it seems -’
‘Tim loves me, we’re together all the time.’
‘You’re not together now.’
‘Are you suggesting -? Anne, what you say is awful, vile. Where on earth did you pick up this rubbish, this filth?’
‘As follows,’ said Anne. She felt calm now, cold, not tearful. ‘Have you heard of a man called Jimmy Roland?’
‘Yes, Tim mentioned him, they shared a studio, I never met him.’
‘Ed Roper met this man in Paris and he said that Tim had been living with this girl Daisy Barrett for years, up to and including the time when he was supposed to be falling in love with you, and that their idea was that Tim should make a rich marriage and that their liaison should continue after it.’
‘It’s not true, Anne, I know it isn’t true. You say “supposed to be falling in love with me”. He did fall in love, he is in love, one can be perfectly certain about something like that! Tim may have had some long love affair years ago-I mean obviously he had affairs, he’s told me a lot of things - there’s some muddle here. Does this woman exist, has anyone seen her?’
‘Yes,’ said Anne, ‘I saw her yesterday.’
‘My God - and - ?’
‘She said there had been this plan and that she was still seeing Tim. Of course -’
‘Anne, Anne, you’ve been too long in the convent, you don’t know that people tell lies. Why ever believe this woman who may be hysterical, jealous, vindictive, anything? It’s all a nonsense. But what is all this that you’ve been doing behind my back-I resent it very much -’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Anne, ‘and of course people tell lies. But what were we to do? We couldn’t just ignore it when -’
‘We - how many of you have been labouring on this rumour, discussing it all together? You said Manfred and the Count - Oh I’m so upset, so shocked -’ Gertrude leapt up and ran to the window as Anne had done. She stared desperately out as if seeking help in a world that knew nothing of her trouble. She tugged her fingers through her hair and rubbed her burning face, then came back and stood at the mantelpiece, glaring down at her friend. She picked up the china monkey cellist and held him unconsciously in her hand.
‘And Moses,’ said Anne. ‘We had to do something. They suggested I should tell you, simply tell you. And Ed Roper knows, of course, and it seems he’s told one or two others. Moses heard it from someone else.’
‘Damn Ed Roper. So anyone might know - And it’s a lie, a foul lie - Anne, how can you -’
Anne sustained Gertrude’s burning angry gaze. She thought, almost to calm her own feelings, Gertrude hates this, she hates the loss of face, she isn’t yet believing it, she’s just furious that other people might.
‘It’s not my fault,’ said Anne. ‘I’m just a messenger. If there’s this unpleasant rumour you would be bound to hear of it in the end from someone, and isn’t it better that you should hear it at the start from me? Please don’t be so cross, my dear.’
‘I’m not “cross”! I’m - it’s unspeakable! And so silly - You and the Count are incredibly naïve - but I’m surprised at Manfred - Anyway I still don’t understand. You say you saw this woman
? What’s her name?’
‘Daisy Barrett. Ed heard this story from Jimmy Roland who you say is Tim’s friend. Roland said Tim and this woman -’
‘Yes, yes, yes, don’t keep repeating it, had arranged that Tim should marry me to keep them in comfort! Anne, Anne, just think!’
‘I know it sounds insane,’ said Anne, immobile and looking up. ‘I’m not saying it’s true! But something must have started the story. The bit I was able to check seemed to fit in -’
‘How did you find the woman?’
‘I got her address from a pub she goes to, Roland mentioned the pub to Ed. She said she’d been Tim’s mistress for years, she implied she still was, she said there had been such a plan - Of course she may have been lying on all these points. My impression of her was that some of it was true. But hadn’t you better ask Tim? If the whole thing’s a malicious invention, it had better be scotched straightaway.’
‘ “Scotched”, odd word,’ said Gertrude. She could not, even at a moment of extreme emotion, resist a habit, caught from Guy, of commenting on words. She seemed a trifle calmer. ‘Yes, OK, I know it’s not your fault. What’s she like?’
‘Shabby, mannish, thin, rather haggard. Seemed educated. Is supposed to be a painter but says she’s a novelist. Lives in a very nasty flatlet near Shepherd’s Bush. Drinks a lot.’
Gertrude was thoughtful. ‘Of course she’s lying. She may be someone Tim knew years ago. Perhaps she heard of his marriage and invented all this so as to get money out of us - though I can’t for the life of me see how she thinks it’s to be done.’
‘I can’t either,’ said Anne, ‘and somehow she didn’t strike me as the sort of person who would invent something to blackmail people. I rather liked her.’
‘You liked her?’
‘Yes, why not, one gets involuntary impressions of people.’
‘You say she’s a drunk?’
‘I thought so. She may be irresponsible, a bit dotty, I mean sort of wild - she’s certainly an eccentric -’
‘You liked someone who is maligning my husband in the most repulsive way imaginable?’
‘No, well, I shouldn’t have said that. I just mean I don’t see her as an obvious paranoid or a vindictive liar. Gertrude, I don’t know what to think. I’ve said all I have to say.’