Change Here For Babylon Page 7

  I went over to David and looked at him. He hadn’t moved and it seemed as if he were breathing with more of an effort. I remembered that he ought to be kept warm and I took a blanket from the bunk and wrapped it round him clumsily.

  Emily said: “Tom, he’ll be all right, won’t he? You said he’d just knocked himself out. Didn’t you? Perhaps we could give him some brandy and bring him round. He wouldn’t want anyone to know, would he?”

  She was pleading with me. I thought that I understood why and I felt angry and very weary.

  I said: “And suppose he isn’t all right? Suppose he does need a doctor? That isn’t important, is it? It is only important that there shouldn’t be any kind of scandal and that nothing should happen to stop Geoffrey getting his seat. You do care about him, don’t you? He’s more important to you than anyone or anything else. More important than a man’s life.”

  It was stupidly histrionic but I didn’t care. It lessened the responsibility to be able to blame her for my own indecision. Her eyes were hurt and I was glad that I had been able to hurt her.

  She said softly: “Tom, don’t. Please help me. What can I do?”

  I said: “For God’s sake, how should I know?”

  I was appalled at myself and my own uselessness. She was asking me for help and there was nothing I could do. She got up from her chair and went over to the telephone, looking at me miserably.

  She said: “Tom, I’m going to ring Geoffrey.”

  I suppose I had known all along that she would do that.

  It seemed to be part of the inevitable pattern. I said, hitting not at her but at my own powerlessness:

  “All right. Ring him up. You want him, don’t you? You want him to get you out of a mess. He always has, hadn’t he? I’m no good to you. I don’t know why you don’t say it. Go on, ring him up. Run back to Daddy and ask him to mend it for you.”

  She was angry. It showed in her eyes and the sudden colour of her cheeks.

  She said: “You don’t give me much choice, do you, Tom?”

  She lifted the receiver and asked for the number of her house. I heard the bell ringing and then a click and a man’s voice, small and clear.

  She said: “Geoffrey, it’s important. There’s been an accident.”

  I couldn’t bear to listen to what was, in effect, evidence of my own impotence. I went out of the cabin into the small kitchen in the stern. I filled the kettle and put it on the oil stove. I made as much noise as I could so that I wouldn’t be able to hear Emily’s voice asking Geoffrey for help.

  I smoked two cigarettes while the kettle boiled. I made the tea in a greasy aluminium pot and poured out two cups. I carried them back into the room. Emily was sitting at the table.

  She said: “He’s coming down. He won’t be long. The Ford was at the garage. He’ll have to knock them up to get it out. The battery was being charged; that’s why I came in the Bentley.”

  I said: “Just like Berry and Co., isn’t it? Is he also bringing a picnic hamper? And the butler?”

  I sat on the table, lit another cigarette and drank the tea. It was hot and strong and bitter.

  She said: “What else could I do, Tom?”

  “How should I know? What do you think the clever Geoffrey is going to do, wave a wand? Does he always dispose of your unwanted lovers so neatly? I’m not much good to you, am I?”

  It was the same jealous scene that we had had often enough before. Only it was worse now; there was more of an edge to the anger. And Emily did not defend Geoffrey as she usually did. She was quiet. I had never seen her so quiet.

  She said: “Tom, I love you. I wanted you to take me away, don’t you remember?”

  “I let you down, didn’t I? You knew that I would; you only asked me because you knew that you were safe. You knew that I couldn’t leave Nora and that you would be able to stay with Geoffrey. So that it was easy enough to make your grand gesture. …”

  Even then I was astonished that love could become so twisted.

  She shook her head. “It isn’t like that at all. Don’t you know that it isn’t?” She sounded lost and unhappy. She went on, fumbling for words in a tentative way that was unlike her. “I was stupid, but it wasn’t just a gesture. I wanted to come away with you, Tom.”

  I said: “It doesn’t sound as if you made a habit of leaving Geoffrey for your lovers.”

  “No,” she said, “I don’t make a habit of it.”

  She was smiling in a drained, unhappy way and I felt a fool. I said that I was sorry and we sat in silence and waited for Geoffrey. The cabin was quiet except for the noise of David’s breathing. It was a noise midway between a snore and a gasp and more regular now. I went to look at him and thought he looked a better colour although his skin was glistening and damp, and he moved his head fretfully on the pillow. I picked up the bottle and the pieces of broken glass and put them into the bin in the kitchen. I washed up the teacups and hung them back on their hook above the stove. Then I went back to Emily and we went on waiting.

  He came after an unending stretch of empty time. He stood in the doorway and the wind swept in with a cold rush. Outside, the wind screamed in the poplars. It wasn’t a pleasant sound.

  He looked tidy and sure of himself. His face was grave, fitting the occasion, and ruddy with cold air.

  He shut the door, and said: “Well, you had better tell me about it.”

  His voice was firm. I felt, both relief that he was there to take the decision, and resentful anger because he was so much more able to do so than I.

  Emily said: “After I’d been here for a little while Tom came, and there was a fight. And David fell.”

  She spoke in a frightened monotone, her eyes fixed on Geoffrey’s face. He nodded slowly, not looking at her. I wondered what she had said to him on the telephone, and how she had explained her own presence here.

  He said to me: “Why did you come to the barge?”

  I said: “I saw the car. It passed me in the lane. I knew it was Emily because she nearly killed me.”

  His mouth twitched. “I see,” he said. “It’s good of you to take so keen an interest in my wife’s virtue. I suppose I should thank you.”

  He crossed the cabin and knelt down by David. His back was towards me and I couldn’t see what he was doing. When he stood up, there was no expression in his face at all.

  Then Emily began to cry. Softly and slowly with her face hidden in her hands. Geoffrey went over to her and stroked her hair, and she leant wearily against him as if she were glad he was there. I was suddenly aware of the extent to which I had failed her.

  Geoffrey said: “It’s all right, dear. It’s all right.”

  I couldn’t bear to watch them together. I said: “Do you want me?”

  Geoffrey looked up with cold, surprised eyes. “Oh,” he said. “Do you want to go?” He paused inquiringly. “In that case, perhaps you would take Emily home? I’ll do what I can for Parry.”

  Of course he could manage alone. He’d get him into a hospital, if it should be necessary, without any scandal. He was competent and clever, and always successful.

  I said: “Of course I’ll take her home. I’ll wait in the car.”

  And I slammed boorishly out of the cabin and ran down the gangplank, stumbling in the mud at the river’s edge. It was very dark, and I fell against the bonnet of the car before I realised that I had reached it.

  At first the car was a haven of stillness and warmth, although, drenched as I was, it was a negative kind of relief. After the first moment or so I was too conscious of my soaked shoes and wet clothes to be grateful for shelter; I huddled my raincoat about me and shivered, nursing the familiar and almost cherished hatred of Geoffrey to me like a child its favourite toy. Present humiliation was an effective spur; I luxuriated with a dry mouth and pounding heart in remote dreams of vengeance.

  I don’t know how long it was before Emily came. Perhaps ten minutes or a quarter of an hour, although it seemed longer. I know that I had given up consci
ously waiting for her and wondering what she was doing and why she was taking so long about it.

  She opened the door unexpectedly and bundled in, wet with rain and gasping as though she had been blown breathless by the wind. She collapsed into the seat beside me.

  She said: “Tom, dear, will you please drive me home?”

  Her voice was gentle and tired. Her head was turned towards me; I could see the faint lightness of her hair in the darkness of the car and her shadowed eyes in the pale blur of her face.

  I switched on the engine with a sudden excitement that was, incongruously, pure pleasure. I had never driven anything before except a ten-ton army truck, and the controls of the Bentley had a delicate and expensive feel to them. There was a gate into a field on the far side of the lane, and I turned the big car with more success than I had expected. I remember that I was absurdly pleased with myself. I accelerated gently up the lane and on to the main road, changing down with a hideous grating of gears as I slowed at the “Halt” sign. I glanced guiltily at Emily to see if she had noticed my clumsiness, but she was staring straight ahead of her, through the windscreen.

  The car was a delight on the main road. It was fast and responsive; the feeling of power relaxed the tension within me. When we were almost back to the town, Emily said in a completely normal voice:

  “I could use a drink. How about you?”

  I parked the car outside the Goat and Compasses, and we went inside. The saloon bar was empty and warm; we drank whisky and at first we didn’t talk to each other. It all seemed surprisingly ordinary as if we had met by chance and were drinking before going home.

  Emily was nervously bright. Her eyes were dark and shining and her skin was rosy.

  She said: “Tom, what are you going to say to Nora?”

  I stared at her like an idiot. I had forgotten about Nora and for a long moment the name meant nothing. Then I was back with a cold splash in the deep end and the water closed over my head.

  I said: “Oh, Jesus. What am I going to say?”

  She said soothingly: “It’s all right, Tom. Say that a lunatic knocked you off your bicycle in the lane and that you had to walk home.” She looked at me in a troubled way. “You’d better tell her that you stopped at the Goat and Compasses for a drink. Not with me—or perhaps that’s stupid? You’d better say that I was here. That we met by accident and I gave you a lift home. I don’t suppose that she’ll believe you. But she won’t think that it was any more than a guilty assignation.”

  She grinned at me over her glass with a certain amount of enjoyment. She was riding high on a wave of excitement. I suppose that even then it wasn’t too late. The net was not perfect; I could have wriggled out through the hole and swum back to safety.

  I said: “And David? He’s hardly likely to corroborate this, is he?”

  She looked at me. She said: “I don’t think he’ll want to talk about it.”

  I said: “You’ve got it all beautifully pat, haven’t you? Did you get your instructions from Geoffrey?”

  She didn’t answer me, she just went on smiling politely and handed me her empty glass. It didn’t occur to me just then that she was only concerned about me, that she was not afraid for herself.

  We had another whisky, and then she said: “I’ll drive myself home, Tom. I’ll drop you at your road.”

  She was being bright and distant and proud. We went out of the pub and back to the car. She drove to the end of my street and stopped, leaving the engine running. I took the hint and kissed her good night quickly. Her mouth was cold and trembling, and tasted salty.

  She said: “Tom, is it going to be all right?” The hard shell had flaked off and she was soft and vulnerable.

  I said, because I was still angry: “Don’t you know that it will be all right? Geoffrey’s in charge, isn’t he? Go on, back to your husband with you. He’s more use to you than I am.”

  She didn’t speak for a moment. Then she sighed a little, and said: “Good night, Tom. Sleep well. God bless you.” And she waited for me to get out of the car.

  As soon as the car had gone I was sorry, but there was nothing that I could do about it. I walked home, down Sanctuary Road.

  The house was dark and the emptiness hit me as soon as I opened the front door. Nora had left a note. It was scribbled in pencil and heavily underlined. It said that she couldn’t bear to be in the house another minute, that they had all gone to stay with her aunt for a day or so. She would write to me. My dinner was in the oven. She was sure I would understand.

  Afterwards I was glad they were not there but at that moment I felt, between mounting waves of weariness, only an appalling sense of loneliness and loss.

  Chapter Five

  I peeled off my wet clothes and had a hot bath. I ate dinner from a tray, smoked a great many cigarettes and wished I had some whisky. I found some brandy that Mrs. Parry kept for medicinal purposes in the bathroom locker; it was surprisingly good and I finished what was left in the bottle.

  At about ten-thirty I was drunk enough to ring Emily. She answered the telephone at once; she sounded a little muzzy as if she were already half-asleep.

  She said: “Tom? Oh, hallo,” in a jerky sort, of way and then there was a pause. I asked about David and she said in a constrained voice that perhaps I had better speak to Geoffrey. There was a mutter off-stage, and then Geoffrey came on the line; I imagined that they were probably in bed together. That was something I usually prevented myself from thinking about; now, having it thrust under my nose, it was a shock to discover how much I minded.

  Geoffrey said: “He seemed to be all right when I left him. He came round quite happily and said he didn’t want to see a doctor. It seemed to be an ordinary sort of knock-out— nothing much to worry about, anyway. Perhaps you’d go down in the morning and have a look at him.” It was an order. His manner was quite kindly but crisp.

  I said: “Yes, I can do that.”

  He said: “That’s nice of you. Thanks for ringing.” He was distant but quite cheerful as if what had happened on the barge was all in the day’s work. Then he said: “I don’t think I should tell your wife about it if I were you. It would upset her. And I don’t think Parry would like it.”

  I wondered why he should bother about Nora’s feelings.

  I said: “I couldn’t tell my wife even if I wanted to. She’s left me.”

  He said: “Good God. I’m sorry about that. Let me know if there is anything I can do.” He sounded anxious and I had no particular desire to reassure him, so I said good-bye and rang off in a hurry. I hoped the prospect of Nora divorcing me and citing Emily would give him a sleepless night.

  My bicycle was where I had left it. There were a couple of small boys playing with it and they scrambled off guiltily when I appeared. I picked it out of the ditch and tried to straighten the frame, succeeding enough to be able to push it. It seemed to be repairable and I propped it carefully against a gate. It was a still, bright morning full of birdsong and the fields and the hedges were clean and washed by the storm.

  I met Steven on my way to the river. He was wheeling his chair up the lane and splashing it into the puddles with an air of absorbed interest. He didn’t look up until I was level with him.

  I said: “Hallo, Steve.” He smiled at me shyly and his freckled face went pink with embarrassment.

  He said: “Good morning, Mr. Harrington. How are you?”

  He was a polite child and might have been a nice-looking one if the skin had been stretched a little less taut over his cheekbones. He usually looked apathetic; this morning he was bright with excitement. I wondered what had happened to him and I talked to him for a moment or two, but he said nothing except in answer to my questions.

  In the end he burst out with it, his eyes wide with wonder.

  “Mr. Harrington, there’s a policeman down by the river. There’s someone dead there.”

  I said: “Have you been to look?” wondering idly how many of the neighbourhood’s children were on the tow pat
h watching the police drag a suicide out of the water.

  He shook his head and grinned proudly. “No, I haven’t just been to look. I took the policeman there. I found him, you see, when I went to fish this morning. I knew he must be dead because he didn’t move at all. I came home and Mummy told the policeman on the telephone. And he asked me to take him down and show him.”

  It was a long speech for Steven. He was breathless and blushing at the end of it.

  Mrs. Foster came running down the road that led to the council houses, her long breasts wobbling under her flowered apron, her face distraught.

  She said: “Oh, Stevie. Here you are.” She looked at me without a smile. “Oh, it’s you, Mr. Harrington.” And then, to Steven, with the crossness bred from anxiety: “You naughty, naughty boy. I said you were to take the policeman to the river and come straight back. Why couldn’t you do what you were told? Driving me out of my mind with worry?”

  Steven said: “But, Mum, they didn’t mind my being there. The policeman was asking me questions.”

  She said: “I don’t know, I’m sure. You’re a bad boy. It isn’t a fit place for a child. I don’t know what he was thinking about. Go along home with you.”

  He went reluctantly, manipulating the wheels with his thin, veined hands. She turned to me, her hands at her breast in a wholly unconscious, melodramatic gesture.

  “I’m glad they found you, Mr. Harrington,” she said. “I told them to fetch you.”

  I said: “No one fetched me, Mrs. Foster.”

  “Oh,” she said, and her eyes went blank and suddenly shifty. She looked as if she wished she hadn’t spoken. She went on hastily: “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I think I’d better get back to Stevie. It’s upsetting for him—not being strong, and all that.” And she turned and followed Steven in a grotesque, waddling run.