Fraud Page 8

  The trouble is, thought Mrs Marsh, that people continued to think in terms of love and marriage as the great adventure, when there were so many more important matters, like work and death and the existence or nonexistence of God. It was death which preoccupied her now: her work as a magistrate, which she had greatly enjoyed, was long over, and God, despite her repeated and fruitless attentions, refused to show His face, and must for ever keep His own counsel. How was death to be faced? More urgently, how was it to be managed? Who would find her if she died in her own bed, as she hoped to do, and get in touch with the children? Mrs Duncan had a key, but if she were going to die while Mrs Duncan still called three times a week she had better get it over and done with straight away, before Mrs Duncan went off to the Isle of Wight. Despite the difficulty presented by the arrangements she knew that she would not fight death when it came. On these quiet evenings, when there was no sound from the street, when neighbours as elderly as herself remained prudently indoors, she would switch off the television or the radio, lean her head back, and think of the past, not her adult past, when she was a married woman with small children, but the remote past, when she had a mother and a father and a nurse and was lovingly cared for. She saw faces which she had never consciously remembered: the grocer in the village shop, whose wife was immensely fat and somehow disabled, or a friend of her mother’s, whose lavish kisses and lovely violet scent had always delighted her, or the gardener with his toothless mouth to whom, as a small child, she used to sing, in the hope of bringing a smile to his face—all gone, all dust now, yet imprinted on the memory in a way which was out of all proportion to their importance in her life. Never beautiful, never attractive, always too tall and too thin, she had nevertheless led the sort of life a young girl of good family was supposed to live, had married at a suitable age a suitable man and in due course had had suitable children.

  When had it all disintegrated, so that now at eighty-one, nearly eighty-two, she sat alone in a gloomy flat on a quiet street, with children who were no longer children but complex adults, whose secrets she sensed but could not understand? Why did Philippa not produce her lover for her mother to welcome and examine? Why did Nick not love openly and whole-heartedly and perhaps bring children into the world? At night, in her bed, which in truth she never wanted to leave, she mentally urged her children on, with something of her old irritation, so that she could leave them to their fate and get on with the business of dying. She was half-beguiled by those images of dead faces which came unbidden into her mind, was even intrigued by the possibility that their owners, now forgotten, might be her guides into the next world, that in fact one did not go to join one’s loved ones but rather a random selection of all the people who had ever figured in one’s own life, on however temporary a basis. In the same way that she saw the face of the grocer, or smelled the violet scent of her mother’s friend, Dolly, she might suddenly and without warning see a Chinese vase, one of a pair which had stood on the landing, or the shape of an ivory-handled fruit knife as it lay beside her plate on the family dinner table. Both vase and fruit knives had disappeared from her life decades ago, had vanished from sight long before she left her parents’ home to get married, yet here they still were, in her consciousness, as if they had never gone away. And even a metal spoon, which the cook used to skim the fat from the soup … In many ways, in those dark hours, she longed to relax her hold on what life she had left and let these images come unbidden into her mind, to do with her what they would. They were so painless, so benign! She hoped that her husband had had similar visitations in the hours when he lay dying. His lips had moved in a faint smile at the end: she had leaned forward over his hospital bed, pressed his hand, and then he was gone. For this reason she had not grieved for him unduly, feeling obscurely that he had gone to a safe place.

  ‘You’re very quiet, Mother.’

  She glanced up in surprise, and saw that her son was looking at her with some concern.

  ‘I believe that this evening has tired you. Would you like me to clear off and leave you in peace? Your woman can get rid of all this, can’t she?’

  She took no notice. ‘Go and sit at the table,’ she said, as she had done when he was a child. ‘The eggs won’t be a moment. And I’ll make some coffee—we could both do with some.’

  She went into the kitchen. Of course, she thought, that’s what I meant to consider. That was the real item on my agenda. And now I’ve left too little time and he will be annoyed if I mention it. He will be annoyed anyway: he finds me something of a nuisance these days. But there is so little time left for discussions of this nature that I may have to risk it.

  ‘Eat your eggs while they are hot,’ she said. ‘And there are stewed pears if you want something afterwards. I’m sorry there’s nothing more substantial. I hope you filled up with the smoked salmon. I thought it all went quite well, didn’t you? But quite a shock, all the same. One sees these people vaguely all the time, and expects them to go on being the same, whereas some of them looked terrible. Arthur Hoskyns, for example. You don’t know him, of course. And Phyllis Martin was leaning on her stick all the time. Normally she only uses it when she goes out. Still, they all made the effort. If only it didn’t leave such a mess.’

  ‘Your woman is coming tomorrow, isn’t she?’

  ‘And that’s another thing. She could easily have stayed on and cleaned up this evening, but, no, she has to offer to come in for an extra morning tomorrow. It seems to me that I am paying her a great deal of money for not very much, but as she keeps telling me it is all going towards something, a new set of towels or saucepans for her house. I told you about her plans, didn’t I? So enterprising. But I do rather object to the expense.’

  ‘You’ve got the money, Mother. And now you’ve got the help.’ Enjoy it while you can was the sentence that came unbidden into both their minds; neither, however, was rash enough to speak it out loud.

  ‘You may smoke,’ said Mrs Marsh, who loved the smell of a cigar. She looked fondly but critically at the blue-jowled face opposite her, its lips puckering as it drew in the first lungful of smoke which emerged again heavy and fragrant. She could see that he was attractive to women, with that suggestion of ease and also of mastery, as if he would be easy to please, but only when he got his own way. Why would a woman not want to please such a man? For she did not think, much as she loved him, that these days he would set out to please a woman. He lacked the humility, thought too much of his damaged pride ever to be eager and hopeful again. Therefore a woman must be found for him who would be so fond and so respectful that she would hardly notice or care if he were not overly fond and respectful towards her lesser self. For in this equation it was her son’s happiness which overran all other considerations in Mrs Marsh’s mind. Which brought her back to her major preoccupation, the one which she knew would annoy her son but which she must voice before the opportunity slipped away: Anna.

  Slightly ashamed of herself, yet with a growing sense of urgency, she thought that if Anna were her daughter-in-law she would be able to die in the full knowledge that attention would be paid. For Anna, with her cloying affection, would be assiduous, telephoning twice a day, visiting regularly, doing shopping, fetching library books, passing on messages. This might be difficult to tolerate, at least until she was finally enfeebled, but in the end she would be grateful. What made Anna so difficult a proposition in the present was that she behaved like a daughter-in-law already, but a daughter-in-law without a husband. It would be difficult to think of Anna as any sort of close relation: she was too unassimilable for that. She was presentable, had been well brought up, well educated, and was virtuous. Ah! That was it! That was what her mind had been telling her ever since her guests had left, and before Nick had come back. She had seen his bitter smile and had not liked it. But there was another problem, one which came in the wake of that secret sardonic smile of his: he had not liked Anna. And if the truth were to be told she did not care for the girl either.

  To Mrs Mars
h’s generation all unmarried women were girls, whatever their age. Yet when she thought of Anna as a girl she thought of a particularly unfortunate sort of girl, the sort of girl she had known when she herself was a girl. Such girls sat out at dances with a bright fixed smile on their faces until somebody’s brother was despatched to rescue them. They were girls who saw their chances diminishing, and who showed their panic, determined always to be jolly and to do the right thing. Of course Anna was not like that, was in many ways a sophisticated woman, one who lived alone and managed her own affairs, and had the presence of mind always to look impeccable. Yet Mrs Marsh had only to think of Anna to see the slightly pitted complexion, conscientiously enlivened, see the ardent loving smile, feel the soft lips gliding over her cheek, perceive—and this was curious—a reserve there almost as great as her own. There was the possibility, not so far considered, that Anna’s feelings of estrangement mirrored those of Mrs Marsh herself. For I am too temperate in my affections, she thought, and she is used to great and overwhelming devotion. The world must seem a cold place to her, and Nick’s secret smile a mockery of all she once felt. She could almost hear the girl say, ‘That is not what I’m after,’ and aloud she said to her son, ‘Will you be seeing Anna again?’

  ‘Why on earth should I?’ he said, in some surprise.

  ‘It is just that I feel responsible for her. I thought you might take her out. She is a good woman,’ she fatally added.

  ‘Mother, I am delighted that she is a good woman. Delighted for her, delighted for you. I found her a crashing bore. Why do you keep going on about her?’

  ‘I should like to see you marry again,’ she ever more fatally stated.

  ‘And you are suggesting that I might marry that bore? Thank you very much.’

  She could see that she had annoyed and insulted him, for he must only be offered pretty women, women who knew all the ancient arts, and with whom he did not have to make too much of an effort.

  ‘Of course not,’ she said, more weakly than she meant to. ‘You may do exactly as you please. You hardly need me to give you permission.’

  But he was too annoyed to pay much attention to her, got up and found his coat, drew his scarf round his neck, the stump of his cigar still in his mouth. She thought he looked ruthless, handsome: despite herself she admired him. Of course it would not work, she thought, he deserved a woman as powerful as himself. My dying does not concern him. Why should it?

  ‘We shall have to talk about your affairs another time,’ he said. ‘I must leave it for now. I promised to look in on a friend.’

  Mrs Marsh thought she knew the sort of friend her son might call upon at past ten o’clock at night: one of the Dianas or Janes he sometimes mentioned, throwing them at her in bulk, as it were, so that she would not suspect any one of them and would thus be still further occluded from his life.

  ‘What will you do about Christmas?’ he asked, bending his cigar-smelling face to kiss her.

  ‘Philippa said something about Blakeney. I expect she’ll ring tomorrow—I’ll ask her then. I do love it there.’

  ‘Good-night, then, Mother. I’ll be in touch next week.’

  ‘Good-night, dear. It was good of you to come this evening. I know it was a bore.’

  Suddenly she genuinely knew this, saw that he had been charitable, forbearing, a good son. Saw too that she should leave everything to Mrs Duncan and go to the haven of her bed and the comforts of the World Service. Everything was quite simple, after all. She was tired, but she was perfectly well. She had no further thoughts of dying. And as these thoughts receded Anna faded quite naturally from her mind.

  The following morning, as Mrs Duncan was Hoovering, Mrs Marsh had two telephone calls. One was from her daughter, Philippa.

  ‘Mother? I thought it went very well, didn’t you?’

  ‘Not too badly at all, considering how all my friends are getting old. How was Don Giovanni?’

  ‘Sublime. Marvellous performance.’

  And are you happy? Mrs Marsh wanted to ask, but remembering the embarrassments of the previous evening preferred not to.

  ‘You’re coming to us at Christmas, aren’t you? And staying for a bit? We thought we’d go down to the cottage on Boxing Day. Michael will collect you, if you don’t want to drive yourself.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll take my own car. I’ll even take the children, if they can put up with my driving.’

  ‘Terrific. I’ll tell them to get in touch. And if you could bring one or two things with you? Some mince pies from M. and S., and one of their Dundee cakes, in case anyone drops in. And some nuts. Dates too: Lucy loves them. I’ll check with you next week, shall I?’

  Mrs Marsh felt an unaccustomed glow and an access of love for her daughter. To be used, to be useful! It was a feeling she had nearly forgotten. Moving less heavily she went into the kitchen to prepare coffee for Mrs Duncan and herself. She could hear the Hoover whine as it was switched off.

  When the telephone rang again Mrs Duncan answered it. She came into the kitchen with a studiedly neutral expression. ‘Anna,’ she said.

  ‘Anna, my dear, good-morning.’

  ‘Aunt Vera, such a lovely party. I can’t thank you enough for inviting me.’

  She recognized the soft gushing tones with something of her normal irritation.

  ‘I’m glad you enjoyed yourself,’ she said conclusively.

  ‘It was so nice to see Philippa again,’ the voice went on. ‘And to meet Nick.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’

  ‘He’s very attractive, isn’t he? You must be very proud of him.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Perhaps a little difficult until you get to know him. But awfully nice, really.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what are you going to do for Christmas, Aunt Vera? I expect you’ll want to go to church on Christmas Day. I’ll come and collect you, shall I?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, Anna, I shall be going down to my daughter’s in Norfolk.’

  ‘Philippa? Oh, how wonderful. I expect you’ll have a lovely time.’

  ‘And what will you do?’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about me—I’ve got tons of things to do.’

  ‘In that case I’ll wish you a Merry Christmas, Anna. I hope you won’t be too lonely.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘No,’ said the voice eventually. ‘I certainly shan’t be lonely. Merry Christmas, Aunt Vera.’ Then the telephone was put down.

  I have angered her in some way, thought Mrs Marsh. But really, there is no need for me to treat her so warily. I expect it is Nick she is really angry with. But in the light of day Nick’s imperviousness to Anna seemed more understandable. She really is rather tiresome, thought Mrs Marsh. And one never knows what she is thinking. I am almost frightened of her, she thought, with surprise. But this was so ridiculous that she shook it off and went into the spare bedroom, where Mrs Duncan was putting on her coat, to give her her money and a small present.

  ‘The Isle of Wight for Christmas?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, both the children are coming.’

  ‘I shall be with the family too.’

  They preened slightly, enjoying their good fortune. Then, ‘Until Friday,’ said Mrs Marsh, and shut the door thankfully behind her.

  8

  ALTHOUGH PROGRAMMED BOTH to be good and to do good Anna felt at ease only in solitude, when no duties should be required of her. Her nurturing instincts thus in abeyance she could contemplate the future quite calmly and see it for what it was, a long succession of empty days, when no-one would call her by her name and ask of her such tasks as she was usually eager to perform. With her mother gone she alternated between loss and hope. When loss prevailed she made herself into a smiling helpmate, although there were few deserving cases, few in real need. For she had known real need and could not excuse the indifference of those she clamoured to help. She knew that they did not love her, found her tiresome, but could not see why she should abandon them for that reason. Only hatr
ed stung her, the hatred of Nick Marsh, of Vickie Halliday. For they had hated her, she knew, hated her bland surface and her patient smile, projecting onto her, as onto a blank screen, their unresolved conflicts, and finding no purchase for their aggressive defensiveness. Or was it defensive aggression? Something sharply sexual in both cases: an avidity, an instinct to destroy, and all disguised by a set of manners which commended themselves in society, good humour, slyness, the intimation of possession, the performance of actual or potential ownership, or the enactment of its opposite …

  She could see that Nick was a mass of hurt pride, that he resented the presence at his side of a woman whom he found unattractive, and who was making a clumsy attempt to aspire to companionship. Yet she had seen no way of leaving him: his very rudeness indicated injury, his averted face an awareness of grievances sustained. Her instinct was to put him at his ease, to play the pleasant party game, and, what was more important, to play it innocently, without becoming entrapped by the dubious undercurrents. It was only when she became aware of his impatience, his contempt for her simple and no doubt timid manners, that she had hardened slightly, for she recognized the sexual insult behind his elaborate performance of indifference, and her surprise had turned into anger before she was able to conquer what was for her so excessive a reaction. His final kiss was injurious: there was no doubt about that. Fortunately, no one would ever know about it. She was quite proud of the way she had got out of the car, slammed the door, and walked off without once looking back. Yet her hand, when she had reached for her keys, was trembling, and she was glad there were no witnesses.

  Vickie Halliday was another matter, one in which she felt no pangs of conscience. She had always known that Vickie was her enemy, although it had never occurred to her that she herself might be seen in the same light. She had disliked Vickie on sight, by instinct, seeing in her the sexual predator who would inevitably emerge victorious from any engagement, and who had carried off Lawrence Halliday almost without a struggle. Yet surely that was history now: there was no need to indicate, without much subtlety, that she was the wife, the chosen one. Anna remembered the night she had sat alone in the drawing-room in Albert Hall Mansions, after Lawrence had informed her of his forthcoming marriage. She had settled her mother in bed, had kissed her, had said that she was not yet tired, that she would read for a bit. ‘I expect you’ve got a lot to think about, darling,’ said Amy Durrant, with tremulous complacency. ‘Lawrence stayed a long time this evening, didn’t he?’ Calmly she had borne away the empty cup which had contained her mother’s tisane, and closed the bedroom door behind her.