Fraud Read online

  In the flat she took off her wet clothes, and made tea. An afternoon to oneself, she thought, would be luxury for some: I shall make it so for me. She boiled two eggs for her lunch, but could only eat one: she felt as if a yellow stain were hardening on her lips. She tried to recapture her earlier vision of the village street on which her house would stand. She washed up, averting her eyes from the traces of egg yolk on her plate, then went into the bathroom and washed her hair.

  In her dressing-gown, her hair spread over her shoulders, she sat listening to a concert on the radio and felt almost at peace, but dangerously so, as if waiting for death. It was now quite dark. She got up and pulled the curtains, brushed away a speck of dust from the arm of her chair, then went to her bedroom to put up her hair and to dress, in her peacock-blue suit, in case anyone called. This day would end, like all the others, and she would look back in pity at the person who had endured it. She made tea, forced herself to eat a few biscuits. Sweet food was easier to swallow. Yet she was in perfect health, untroubled by her body, as she supposed few women of her age had any right to be. Extreme discipline kept her in check, while demons, she knew, circled and waited. But she had been given this dispensation of a calm temperament, and had outwitted many a fear.

  When she judged it late enough she prepared for bed, her chosen moment. It was understood that she would take another pill tonight. That left only two. To obtain more she would have to see Lawrence Halliday. The inevitability of this thought brought warmth to her cheeks, made the prospect of other days like this less onerous. One to one, she thought, without those others. Suddenly, Nick Marsh, Vickie, even Mrs Marsh, seemed to her a band of grotesques. The beautiful peace began to loosen her limbs, and she lay back on the pillows, a smile of anticipation on her face.

  9

  MRS MARSH, in Blakeney, fell heavily, and cut her knee on the stone step of her daughter’s cottage. Hauled to her feet by Philippa and Michael she appeared dazed and fretful, more concerned with the state of her lacerated stocking than with what might have caused her accident. They took her indoors and sat her in an armchair, wondering aloud whether to call the doctor, when, ‘Don’t fuss, Philippa,’ said Mrs Marsh in her normal voice, to their great relief.

  ‘What was all that about?’ asked Philippa, a little too heartily.

  ‘Your new doormat,’ retorted Mrs Marsh. ‘Must have skidded away from the tiles. I should have warned you about that. Better to weight it down at first. Well, at least nothing’s broken.’

  But she was glad that Philippa was there, and would have stayed in her chair, resting for a little, had not Michael said, ‘You’d better get that stocking off, Gran, or it’ll stick. I’ll help you upstairs—lean on me.’

  Philippa, seeing the two tall figures humping slowly up the stairs, thought how old her mother looked. She quickly assembled bandages and antiseptic and hurried after them. Later, seated downstairs again, the knee thickly bandaged and forming a bulge under a clean stocking, Mrs Marsh was silent, reviewing in her mind the consequences of her fall if she had been alone. Uppermost in her thoughts was the fear of burdening her daughter, of being an embarrassment to her grandson: she had felt ashamed of her thick torn stocking, and had no desire to reveal more of her heavy underclothes. The disgraces of old age were best kept to oneself. She felt an unaccustomed warmth across her forehead, the vestiges of a retrospective blush, and longed to be in her own bed at home, with her radio for company, rather than in Philippa’s guest room, with its sloping ceiling and its window that did not quite close.

  ‘We’ll go back to Norwich in the morning, if you’re feeling up to it,’ said Philippa.

  ‘Actually I’d rather go home,’ said Mrs Marsh. ‘I’ll have to go eventually, so I might as well go tomorrow, if Michael wouldn’t mind driving my car.’

  ‘You can’t be on your own,’ objected her daughter.

  ‘What absolute nonsense. I’m not ill. I took a toss, that’s all. And you’re not to come fussing up to London. I’ll call the doctor, if I need him. Don’t look so worried,’ she added, regretting that she had never made a habit of endearments, for she felt unconsciously fond and regretful, as if she were seeing Philippa for the last time. ‘I’m a tough old bird.’ Indeed I am, she told herself. But she was glad to be helped up the stairs, for all her limbs seemed to have stiffened while she had been resting in the chair.

  ‘You see,’ she said, forcing a little energy into her voice. ‘There are no stairs at home. I shan’t have to put any weight on it.’

  The knee was throbbing now and the bandage felt too tight. In bed, when Philippa had left her, she leaned her head back, and let two hard little tears chase down her cheeks. It is the shock, she thought: delayed shock. What a fool I must have looked. Her one wish was to protect her daughter and her grandson against further unattractive sights. Whatever indignities were to follow she preferred to keep discreetly concealed. She thought she might keep up some sort of pretence of normality until she reached home, and trained all her considerable will-power to that end. Several times, during the following morning, when, leaning on one of Philippa’s late husband’s sticks, she took a turn round the garden to show them how well she was, she felt the threat of tears once more. She could not remember crying since Nick had announced that he was divorcing Sonia, and those tears had been more of anger than of sorrow, a shameful hurried episode thankfully forgotten. If I were at home, she thought, I could cry all I wanted to, but then being at home I might be more relaxed, less melancholy. I am homesick, she thought with surprise. Homesick for that dark flat which I have never much liked, homesick for my own chair and my footstool, for that brown kitchen teapot which I brought from Pelham Street (Beatrice swore that it made the best tea, and she was right: I often enjoyed a cup in the basement with her), homesick above all for my bedroom, so gloomy in daytime, so comfortingly womblike at night.

  ‘What time were you thinking of starting out?’ she asked her daughter, in a tone as light and agreeable as she could manage.

  ‘I thought after lunch, not that there is much of anything left.’

  ‘Why don’t we go now? I will give you both lunch at that nice place we passed, the one you recommended. Then I could be home in time for tea.’

  ‘If you’re sure … In that case I won’t come with you. I’ll stay here and lock up. Take Michael to lunch by all means, he’d love it. Gran is giving you lunch at the White Rose,’ she called to her son. ‘Nothing to drink, mind,’ she added. ‘You’re to drive very carefully back to London. Will that be all right, Mother?’

  She looked so anxious, a frown creasing her broad fair forehead, that Mrs Marsh once again regretted that she was so undemonstrative a mother.

  ‘Perfectly fine,’ she said. ‘Thank you for everything. My dear,’ she added awkwardly.

  In the car her knee throbbed, but she was determined to see this through. She even managed a lamb chop at the White Rose, while Michael ate his way through potted shrimps, salmon fishcakes, and treacle tart. She admired his appetite. A decent fellow, she thought, more to him than to his sister. He has a look of Bill about him. She smiled at him, remembering motoring with her husband in the early days of their courtship. I enjoyed being engaged, she thought: one got out so much.

  ‘Have you had enough, dear?’ she asked, finding the endearment easier the second time. ‘Then I think we should make a move.’

  The rest of the journey was uneventful. She thought she might have dozed a little: certainly her head came up with a jerk as they entered London, in time to notice that the weather was dark and damp, a slight drizzle misting the windscreen. She felt tired and stiff, and wondered how soon she might decently be alone. Michael helped her into the flat, which had a blighted air, as if it had been deserted for some time. The bad light seemed to lay a filter of neglect over her chair, her lamp, her little table: an abandoned library book, with a Christmas card marking her place, lay askew on the footstool, which she now cleared, glancing at the book to see if she wanted to go on
with it, and then remembering that she had read it before, feeling nothing but relief, all other considerations secondary.

  ‘Don’t let me keep you, Michael,’ she said, cheerfully, she hoped. ‘I’m fine now. And I expect you’re busy this evening.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure, Gran. I might give Sophie a ring. Surprise her—she’s not expecting me till the weekend. Take her out to dinner, or something.’

  No, that is not a good idea, thought Mrs Marsh. Ground rules should be observed, and he was still a novice at the game. But perhaps this Sophie was a good girl, if there were any left, and would be pleased to be surprised in this way. In any event the treat which she had promised herself ever since the previous painful evening—a cup of tea from her old cook Beatrice’s brown pot—could not be postponed any longer. She felt restless at the thought of having to wait for it, and it was with a slightly distracted affection that she saw Michael to the door. Left alone, her face sagged, and she had to rest in her chair for a while before she could summon up the energy to make her way to the kitchen.

  Her night was agitated. She woke several times and had to get up: feeling her way into her bedroom, and unsteady on her feet, she knocked over her glass of water. Back in bed, but lying rather awkwardly, she could hear the last drops pattering onto the carpet. And Mrs Duncan was in the Isle of Wight until the following week, she remembered. She promised herself that she would review the situation in the morning, but the morning dawned dark and discouraging, and she felt too tired to get up. Dragging herself to the bathroom she was shocked by the sight of her grey face and wild hair. A very slight return of pride forced her to get dressed and even to make her bed: she was not sure whether she could face another night like the one she had previously endured. The arrival of The Times cheered her slightly, and she managed to make tea and a slice of toast for her breakfast. Then she left her plate and cup in the sink, hobbled into the sitting-room, and waited for the day to begin.

  She sat down heavily, propped her leg on the stool, and, through the bandage, palpated her knee. It did not seem to be any worse, was, if anything, less swollen and less sore. The trouble was that she felt rather unwell in herself: a generalized ache, a coldness, which made her rather fearful. There was no-one she could call. Nick was in Hong Kong on business, and in any event she would not wish him to see her like this. Her neighbours were too decrepit to carry shopping, although she did not think she would want to eat much; there was a tin of soup in the larder which would do for her lunch. Perhaps it would be wise to call the doctor, just to reassure herself. There was nothing she really needed, and yet the length of the day before her left her disheartened. Still only nine o’clock … And she found that she could not settle to The Times, which she put aside for the evening, when she might be able to concentrate a little better, and she had quite rejected the library book, which she did not wish to read again, and she had no hope of getting to the library. It was then that she thought of Anna. Anna might be problematic in herself but she would certainly be an excellent person to perform a few small tasks, a little shopping, a change of books, the newsagent (she would treat herself to Country Life). She would not want her around for company: indeed Anna was too old, too uncomfortable for that purpose. But Anna was used to performing such small tasks as these, and would no doubt be grateful for the opportunity to perform them once again. Mrs Marsh hauled her bag onto her lap, found her diary and her glasses, and eventually the slip of paper on which she had noted down Anna’s telephone number. Within seconds the remote voice answered her own. She could almost imagine that she saw the abstracted, almost archaic smile. ‘But that is not what I am looking for,’ she thought, as if the thought had been transmitted from Anna’s head into her own, and she made her voice sound warmer than usual, because the fear which she had banished by the act of getting up and getting dressed now threatened to return, and she found herself anxious for company.

  ‘Anna? It’s Vera Marsh. I hope I don’t disturb you?’

  The silence at the other end seemed dreamy, as did the voice when it spoke.

  ‘Aunt Vera! How nice to hear from you. How are you?’

  ‘I’m well, but I had a silly fall when I was down at my daughter’s, and I think I’d better stay put for a couple of days. I was wondering if you’d be kind enough to …’

  ‘But of course.’ The voice sharpened, became competent. ‘I’ll come at once. Have you called the doctor?’

  ‘No, I don’t think I need a doctor. I’m a strong woman, always have been.’

  ‘Call him,’ said the voice, warmer now. ‘He’ll just be starting his surgery; he can come round afterwards. It’s the sensible thing to do. You probably need a couple of good nights’ sleep to get over the shock.’

  ‘You may be right,’ said Mrs Marsh humbly. The pleasure of being taken in hand was gratifying, but alarming. Is it to be downhill all the way now, she thought, no more independence, no more cherished little habits, little eccentricities, no more quiet brooding life with my own thoughts, my own silence? She felt the onset of tears once again, took the stick which she had brought up from Philippa’s, stumped into her bedroom, and wiped a swathe of pale pink powder over her face. She looked round the room: the water, she was glad to note, had disappeared into the carpet and left no trace. She wiped up the few drops on the bedside table with one of Bill’s handkerchiefs which she stuffed into the sleeve of her brown pullover. She congratulated herself on having made the bed. But she did not look forward to the coming night, and she hoped that the doctor might be persuaded to leave her a sleeping pill, or a prescription which Anna could take to the chemist. She prided herself on never using sedatives, but with the memory of the previous night’s nightmares fresh in her mind she was prepared to make a temporary concession. Just for once, she thought, putting down the telephone. The doctor would be with her as soon as possible.

  Anna, when she came, was flushed, almost attractive. She took off her raincoat, revealing a cashmere sweater of palest cream, and a tan tartan skirt: a strong and agitated smell of gardenias filled the room. Mrs Marsh, restored to something of her usual authority by the presence of another human creature, noted Anna’s extreme thinness, resolved to speak to her about it, flapped her hand slightly in the direction of the scent, and, suggesting a cup of coffee, prepared to endure Anna’s company for the price of the pleasure of being waited on.

  ‘Did you ring the doctor?’ asked Anna, coming in with a tray. She had found a packet of biscuits from somewhere, or maybe she had even brought them.

  ‘He’s on his way. I wonder if I might ask you to change my books for me? And I suppose I should eat something, although I’m not in the least hungry. If you could get me some eggs, perhaps. And bread, of course. Milk. Tomatoes, perhaps. A few bananas. You see, I only came back last night. If you could let me know how much you lay out … Or take my purse.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ said Anna, with her maddening smile. ‘Do you want me to go now? Or shall I wait?’

  ‘No, go now,’ said Mrs Marsh, who had no desire to reveal her leg to Anna when the doctor came. In her mind the doctor—any doctor—did not count as a man, and could therefore be allowed to witness her physical disgrace, but the presence of another woman could be critical (she could imagine the younger woman’s eye on her thick rolled down stocking, on the ugly old-fashioned suspenders) and she was anxious to get her out of the flat. She was grateful to her for coming, but felt something like the onset of her old impatience. The girl’s forbearing smile, her way of standing with her ballet dancer’s feet in the third position, her clasped hands, like those of Seurat’s Poseuses, were beginning to annoy Mrs Marsh, who was anxious now for the doctor’s visit.

  ‘If he leaves a prescription you could perhaps get it later,’ she said. ‘I should be so grateful to have the books as soon as possible. I am lost without something to read. If you could get me a couple of biographies, nothing too political. Perhaps something to do with the theatre, or travel. I’m sure you’ll th
ink of something.’

  Alone, she had time to hobble to the bathroom, and to hobble back to her chair. The leg was notably less stiff, but she still felt chilled. When the doorbell rang she started, but got up eagerly, looking forward to the treat of a masculine presence.

  ‘So good of you to come,’ she murmured. ‘I had a silly fall … Won’t you take off your coat?’

  The graceless stocking was once again rolled down, the crude and unravelling bandage discarded. Mrs Marsh looked down on the fair head bent over her knee. An attractive man, she thought, although he will lose that hair fairly soon. It is already thinning on the crown. He looks as young men used to look in the early days of the war, when they were so handsome and so brave. Not that this one is brave: he has a troubled look. I believe Phyllis Martin told me that he comes from somewhere in the Midlands, although there is no trace of an accent. Impossible to tell where he went to school. About the same age as Nick, perhaps a year or two younger. Yes, definitely attractive: the women must be falling over themselves. Not that there’s much chance of anything there. He longs for a quiet life, I should think. Not a happy man, perhaps. Beautiful hands.

  ‘Does that hurt?’ asked Lawrence Halliday, raising his eyes, meeting Mrs Marsh’s amused glance, and blushing.

  Mrs Marsh was restored to good humour by this exchange. He must have read my thoughts, she told herself, or else he is beset by women. She felt cheered by this evidence of a spark of life still in her: her face relaxed, and a little warmth came into her cheeks.