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  And yet he did not want to see her go. Her composure struck him as frightening, almost grotesque: he feared for her. He had long feared for himself, knew himself to be alienated from his own life, had joked, even to himself, about a mid-life crisis, a male menopause, had even advanced the understanding of such disorders. He knew that men like himself, nurtured by loving and sacrificial mothers, would always want a woman’s approval, would seek absolution from a woman for any faults too hastily committed, would want to be forgiven and consoled. He sensed, in Anna’s drooping head, that he had failed her, and tried to summon the energy to be exasperated. She noted that he was becoming irritable, unable to banish unwelcome feelings as they flooded in, and regarded his baffled eyes with pity.

  She held out her hand.

  ‘Goodbye, Lawrence. Thank you for giving me so much of your time.’

  ‘Goodbye, then, Anna. I shall want to see you in a couple of weeks’ time. Oh, and don’t forget that you’re coming to dinner! I’ll get Vickie to give you a ring.’

  He is worried that I might commit suicide, she thought, as she walked neatly down Cheltenham Terrace. The odd thing is that if I did he would feel responsible. Therefore I shall never do it. She saw the difficulty he was in, not quite happy with the life he had chosen for himself, lonely in the company of his wife, only at ease with the sick and the weak, offering his own weakness in the form of comfort, a hand held, a reassuring smile, taking strength from such contact as from an immense pool of loving-kindness. Though she knew nothing about him beyond what he had told her of his mother and her sacrifices she had a vision of his early life, of the chapel in the back streets of Leicester, of dull moody Sunday afternoons, of lowering skies, of abandoned newspapers blowing in a gritty wind, of the smell of kitchen soap.

  She could not blame him, she did not blame him for exchanging this bleak landscape for something more enlivening. She blamed herself for failing to keep him entertained. For he would respond quickly, she saw, to any kind of display. Now she felt sadness for them both. Of the two, her part seemed the easier to bear, with no witnesses, no dependants. She longed to see him happier, and in the middle of the King’s Road, on a misty Monday afternoon, knew it for a fact that she could have made him happy, that she knew this, and that he knew it too.

  15

  AT LAST THE whitening sky promised some relief from winter. There was as yet nothing in the way of spring, but every morning it got light earlier, so that Mrs Marsh, preparing Nick’s breakfast tray in the kitchen, could see quite clearly, instead of feeling her way around, as she seemed to have done for so many months past. A cruel winter, she thought, as she poured hot water into the teapot to warm it, and not quite over. Yet when she had been shopping, on the previous morning, she had noticed frail blossom on the branches of the two almond trees in a nearby garden; looking up, she had seen thick buds, pregnant and ready to break, on the magnolia, the pride of the little street. But it was the air itself which promised change. It seemed charged with a new expectancy, as if each day it might attempt more in the way of progress. After early mist and frost a pallid sun appeared in the sky, first as a puddle of white light, and later as an almost recognizable yellow disk. There was no heat in the sun; indeed it seemed charged with coldness, as did the air, which, at the end of the afternoon, declined again into mist. Yet for those few hours it was possible to feel a new optimism, to step less heavily than usual across to the fishmonger, to put an extra pint of milk into her basket on wheels, to exchange a few pleasant words with the chemist as she bought more Kleenex, and to reach the flat again, a little out of breath but triumphant, as she had not felt for years, she now realized, since the children were young, before she was widowed. And yet I have not minded living alone, she thought. It is just that this little illness of Nick’s has reconnected me with happier times. She smiled almost shyly at the thought that she had once been happy. She was even happy now.

  He had been with her for five days, most of them spent in bed. He was a docile patient, although he did not seem particularly ill. She suspected that he was enjoying this period of enforced rest, during which he too could revert to a simpler time in his life, before he was married and divorced and disillusioned, and assiduous and dismissive towards women for whom he did not care. All the complications of his life seemed to have been lifted from him, as he lay in bed in his mother’s spare room, with its white walls and its blue carpet, and its white curtains patterned with blue flowers and green leaves. A certain amount of furniture had found its way into this room from other parts of the flat: there was a bulky mains radio, which had been replaced by various transistors, and which still worked, though faintly, and a desk in which his mother kept her insurance policies and other, similar documents. In the wardrobe, he knew, there was a large roll of wallpaper, left over from the time when the flat had last been decorated. A handsome mirror, gilt framed, and decorated with curlicues of golden plaster, now dusty and slightly chipped, hung on the opposite wall, above a small bergère: if he sat upright in bed he could see his face in its dim lunar surface.

  He was strangely contented. Every morning he devoted to being ill, and every afternoon to getting better. He listened to The Archers and the afternoon play. This was his favourite time. With the advent of the News and more serious programmes he was reminded of the fact that he was fifty-one, a responsible citizen, and a businessman who was due in New York the following week, all of which information struck him as highly unwelcome.

  Mrs Marsh, waking from her nap, which she took in her chair in the sitting-room so as not to disturb him, would hear him moving about in the bathroom. He usually took a bath, while she prepared the tea. No cook, having made few successful cakes in her life, she was somewhat at a loss when it came to tempting his appetite. Fortunately he did not seem interested in food, although he ate his lunch of grilled fish uncomplainingly, largely because it came on one of the few beautiful plates left over from one of the services he remembered from the old house, and because the fish forks, though a little tarnished and in need of silver polish, were heavy and ornate. He had always loved them and now he supposed that they would be his when his mother died. This introduced a morbid train of thought, which he quickly banished with a radio phone-in. He had previously had no idea that people listened to such things. For tea they ate biscuits, guiltily but with pleasure, aware that people of their sort would normally be served a toasted tea-cake or a slice of freshly made jam sponge. Where had she had that sort of tea, Mrs Marsh wondered. Was it with Amy Durrant? She had not thought about her for some time, even less about Anna; indeed she had thought about nothing but Nick for five happy days. Tired she might have been; she could not deny that she was tired, that she found it hard to suppress a groan when she sank into bed at night, but there was no doubt that she felt more hopeful, more optimistic. She did not even mind relinquishing The Times, even before she had been through the Deaths and In Memoriam columns: she promised herself that she would look at them in bed, but by that time she had almost lost interest, and simply wanted to close her eyes and sleep, and thus gather the strength to get through the following day. For her days were busy now.

  Shopping, which she had always detested, now yielded unexpected pleasures. ‘What would you recommend for flu?’ she asked Mr Davies, the chemist. ‘I’ve got my son at home in bed.’ It gave her pride to say this, knowing that some might have pitied her for being a widow and alone. ‘Getting on, is he?’ asked her new friend, the fishmonger. ‘Mind you don’t go catching it now—there’s a lot of it about. I’ve got some lovely plaice this morning. Do you a couple of fillets?’ ‘Make it four,’ she said happily. ‘His appetite is a lot better now.’ They had lunched on fish and mashed potatoes for the last couple of days; she had few dishes in her repertoire, although she had once appreciated fine food. She decided to roast a chicken for the weekend, if Nick were still with her by that time. She feared not: he had spoken of New York, and would want to go home to pack and prepare his papers. In fact this might be
his last day with her, unless she could prevail upon him to stay a little longer. He was quite well enough to go home, although strangely disinclined to leave the spare room. Nick’s room, she thought of it now.

  In the evenings, when he sat with her, they spoke of his father. She had not realized how devoted Nick was to his father’s memory, though with something of her old shrewdness she thought that his brief illness might have made him softer, almost sentimental. He looked like his father, of that there was no doubt, especially now that his face had settled into mature folds. If only he could remain like this, subdued and agreeable, receptive to her reminiscences and observations! He himself seemed to be thinking along the same lines. It was as if, restored to his mother’s ministrations, he had laid aside his conqueror’s sneer, had relinquished his role as married woman’s escort, lover, flatterer, betrayer, had become naïf and hopeful once more. He liked being the object of a woman’s attention, when that attention was not carnal: he found it natural.

  In addition to his mother’s austere care he had profited from the enthusiastic presence of Mrs Duncan, who had been subjugated at an early stage. Sometimes it seemed to him that Mrs Duncan and his mother vied with each other as to who was to take in his mid-morning Bovril or to prepare his lunch-time tray. Mrs Duncan liked to put her head round the door to wish him goodbye as she was leaving, and would even ask Mrs Marsh if there was anything she would like her to bring in on her way to work the following morning. Nick had effected a timely rapprochement between the two women, who found that they could converse quite happily as long as a man was the prime topic under discussion. Mrs Marsh stopped worrying about Mrs Duncan’s finer feelings, and Mrs Duncan raised no objection to working extra hours. The money was useful, and she had her sights set on a new microwave, which she could take down to the house at Easter.

  But the day came, all too soon, when Nick stood in the hall, with his overcoat buttoned, and his briefcase once more in his hand, and said goodbye to his mother. She found herself longing for him to stay, although she now realized that she was very tired. It might be pleasant to sit through the morning with the paper, to doze in the afternoon without listening for him, but nothing would ever again compare with the pleasure of looking after him—so brief and unexpected a pleasure, which had restored her to life when she had almost despaired of the long winter and what it was doing to her. She had never been worried about this illness of his, had felt a mother’s strength and confidence when his temperature was high, and had been convinced of a good outcome, even in the sharp cold nights, when natural fatigue wore down her own resistance. She had equated his illness with the lightening morning sky, and thus with a time of hope. She thought that he too had enjoyed this brief respite in his busy and predatory life, and it was with regret that she saw his face, its colour once more normal and healthy, resume its harsh expression, as if the boy he had been were once again becoming the man he thought he had to be. He did not need to bend far to kiss her; they were nearly the same height. She thought that she had never seen him look so handsome. He thought that without her almost girlish smile she would have looked quite shockingly old. He was going to New York. She would not see him for a week.

  She felt her way back to the sitting-room. The day seemed to have darkened, and once again she sensed the cold air pressing against the windows. Strange, when she had been so convinced that the winter was past. She even thought of switching on the electric fire, something she normally never did until the evening, and not always then. She supposed that she could now tell Mrs Duncan not to come every morning, although it was quite pleasant to have her company. But perhaps her own attractions would naturally diminish now that Nick had gone, and Mrs Duncan would wish to return to her fascinating life, away from the flat which now contained only her bleak and unrewarding self.

  She supposed that the barriers would now go up again, and even thought that they must do. She had enjoyed those mornings sitting over the coffee in the kitchen, discussing Nick’s likes and dislikes, crumbs of biscuits all around them, but looking back she had felt a little sad and guilty that her own rigid standards had dropped, even by a fraction. She saw herself in caricatural pose, gossiping with Mrs Duncan, who needed no encouragement, and who was willing to discuss her children’s ailments by way of fair exchange. Nick’s altogether correct symptoms were as nothing, Mrs Duncan pronounced, compared with the time when Keith had had mumps. This was a worry of a quite different order, said Mrs Duncan, lowering her eyelids discreetly. Mrs Marsh would understand what she meant; there was no need to spell it out. ‘Quite,’ said Mrs Marsh. ‘I wonder if you’d be so kind as to bring me a couple of tins of vegetable soup when you come tomorrow? I feel a little tired now. The soup will do for my lunch. I don’t particularly want to go out.’ There was a quid pro quo about these matters, she reflected. Without Keith’s mumps she would not have had the courage to ask for the soup. They both rose reluctantly. Mrs Duncan would have liked to smoke a cigarette, but did not quite have the courage to do so. I must give it up, she thought; it spoils my image. There was an air of regret about the two of them, as if both had belatedly realized that their children had grown up and gone away. When Mrs Duncan said, ‘You’ll miss him,’ Mrs Marsh nodded almost sadly. Then she thought it time to bring this sort of conversation to a close once and for all, for she feared further examination of her feelings, preferring to keep them to herself.

  She no longer looked forward to going to the shops, to exchanging a few words with the shopkeepers, whom she suddenly seemed to know quite well. Just as suddenly they joined the cast of characters in her mind, for she doubted that she would have much more to say to them. With Nick gone it seemed as if all the springs of communication had dried up, leaving her to be the same terse old woman she had been before those blessed five days. She sat on in her chair, brooding, while Mrs Duncan turned out the spare room, stripping the bed and opening the windows wide. Somehow she could not settle to The Times: she still had yesterday’s copy, with the crossword half filled in by Nick. Tomorrow he would be doing the crossword as he crossed the Atlantic, in Concorde. She felt tired now; when Mrs Duncan had gone she would heat up some soup and have it for lunch, with a wholemeal roll. There was no hurry; she was not hungry. She might even lie down properly this afternoon, although it was her day for the hairdresser. She supposed that she would keep her appointment; there was no point in letting one’s appearance suffer, even if one had never been a beauty. But she felt rooted to her chair, and when Mrs Duncan announced that she was off how she felt quite startled, as if she had been asleep, or at least had fallen into some kind of doze. ‘Goodbye,’ she said, recovering herself with difficulty. ‘Thank you for everything. See you tomorrow. Goodbye now.’

  She crept to the hairdresser’s as if it were her last assignation on this earth. She was aware of feeling weak, too weak to sit under the dryer, which always made her feel uncomfortable, too weak to enquire after Tony’s fiancée and the shampoo girl’s wedding plans. These were going ahead, she knew, and it became her to show an interest. Trailing the limp fastenings of her gown she took her place at the basin, and was aware, as she leaned her head back, of a stiffness in her neck. ‘A little tired,’ she allowed, as the girl asked her if she were all right. ‘I’ve been looking after my son. He’s had the flu.’ But the incident now seemed drained of interest, as if it had taken place a long time ago and was now buried in the past. Sitting stiffly before the mirror she tried to concentrate on an article in a magazine the girl had kindly put in front of her. ‘How to tell if you’ve had an orgasm,’ she read studiously, without understanding what it was all about. She supposed this information was meant for the very young; such matters were never mentioned in her day. She felt as though she were eavesdropping on a subject she had no business to entertain, but the young were different. Gail, the girl who had washed her hair, was full of life and curiosity. Although the day was cold she wore an abbreviated T-shirt which seemed designed to slip off her shoulders. She always enquired k
indly after Mrs Marsh’s health, but as if the answers could not possibly concern her. Combing through the wet grey hair, she kept her eyes averted from the pink scalp underneath. The skull beneath the skin, thought Mrs Marsh, who repeated the phrase to herself every time this happened.

  Tony came up with his usual swagger; a soft-hearted boy, he had adopted the stance of an athlete or a gangster as being appropriate to his status as chief stylist. ‘You look as if you’re about to take part in the Tour de France,’ she had once said to him, in a moment of exceptional effervescence. He had been delighted, and had had a special regard for her ever since. ‘How is Sandra?’ she managed to say to him, although her mouth was dry. ‘Oh, busy,’ he said indulgently. ‘Full of plans. You know how they are.’ He spoke as if Mrs Marsh had long been out of the running, even out of the human race. She laid down the article on orgasms as the dryer was fitted over her head. ‘Tea or coffee?’ asked Tony, lowering his face to hers. ‘I wonder if I might have a glass of water?’ she managed to ask.

  ‘All right, are you?’ they said to her, as she slowly shrugged her way into her coat. She could hear the unspoken words as she negotiated the door. ‘Poor old thing,’ she repeated to herself, as if the words had really been spoken. She reached the flat and sank down in her chair, looking around her with dismay as she realized that she might never move out again. I can’t be ill, she thought. I have never been ill in my life, and now I am too old to endure an illness. I might die, and the children would be shocked, even disappointed. The thought of Nick looking in, as he had promised, on his return from New York, and finding her dead, prompted her to telephone the doctor. ‘He’s rushed off his feet,’ said the receptionist. ‘There’s so much of this flu about. I should go to bed if I were you. I doubt if he’ll be round tonight. I’ll give him the message. I dare say he’ll fit you in tomorrow.’ Suddenly there was nothing to do but endure whatever was in store for her. She found she no longer had the strength to make a cup of tea or fill a hot-water bottle. In any event she felt very warm. She managed to remove her clothes and even to hang them up, and to fetch a glass of water, although she rarely did so these days for fear of knocking it over. When had that happened? When her leg was bad? Well, I got over that, she thought, and I shall get over this. But by now she felt very ill indeed.