An accident.
Rose admitted no inconsistency in her thinking. She had been brought up by loving parents who lived by the Ten Commandments. Any breach of Holy Law that she had committed as a child had so manifestly upset them that she had taken it to be a sin against her parents, rather than against God. She had found it very easy to forget about the God who was in Heaven. The only way to survive as a vicar’s daughter was to treat your father as God. You could do anything at all so long as you kept him in blissful ignorance.
Barry had forced her hand. She had until Thursday evening if she was to get a penny of the insurance.
She was studying the calendar when she heard the key turn in the front door. She looked at the clock. It wasn’t even eight yet.
Barry thrust open the kitchen door. ‘Surprised you?’ ‘Well, yes.’
‘What’s up? You look peeved.’ ‘My eyes are sore, that’s all.’ ‘See if these help.’
He handed her a bunch of red roses.
‘Believe it or not, he expected the works.’
Antonia’s eyes widened unusually. She hardly ever registered surprise. She had a way of treating everything as if she were hearing it for the second time. ‘And did you let him?’
‘Of course not. As if one bunch of flowers cancelled out all the women he’s had.’
‘The red roses must have cost him a packet.’
‘I’m not one of his Friday night tarts and I told him so. I told him to take a cold bath.’
Antonia almost purred in approval. ‘Nice work! Did he get nasty?’
‘He went down to the pub until closing time. When he came in he made a clumsy effort to paw me so I bit his ear.’
‘Darling, after what happened last time, you’ve got some pluck.’
‘I was so angry I didn’t think. He let me alone after that.’
Rose glared at a fat woman on an adjacent table who had stopped eating her blackberry flan the better to overhear what was said. They were in the marbled setting of the Strand Corner House. Any afternoon between the hours of three and four many a lapse of conduct was discussed over the silver-plated teapots. A string quartet was playing ‘My dreams are getting better all the time’. Antonia was in yet another new outfit that looked as if it came from Harrods, a white pillbox hat and an emerald green two-piece with white polka dots.
‘I wonder what he hoped to achieve.’
From the long look Antonia gave as she spoke it was clear that she suspected Barry of plotting something. Rose knew better. ‘He’s like that. He thinks all his faults are forgiven in bed. Sometimes they have been, I don’t mind admitting. Well, forgotten, if not forgiven. I can’t live like a nun. It’s against nature. Good, she’s leaving.’
The fat woman ostentatiously pushed aside her teacup and marched out.
Rose hardly paused. She was coming out with things that she wouldn’t have discussed with a living soul until a few days ago. She heard herself analysing Barry’s behaviour with such steely detachment that it might have been Antonia speaking. ‘I suppose he could have been trying to sweeten me in case I raised Cain about the insurance, but I doubt it. Barry isn’t a schemer. He lives for the moment, and that’s what landed us in our present mess.’
Antonia, evidently sensing where this was leading, attempted to head Rose off with some homespun philosophy. ‘Men like him won the war for us, but they can’t cope in peacetime.’
‘So?’
‘Have some more tea.’
‘Damn the tea.’
She felt entitled to some straight talking. It was obvious Antonia knew what was in her mind and was shying away from it with her platitudes about the war and her fussing with the teapot.
‘What I’m telling you is that I’d be better off if Barry was dead.’
‘Well, yes.’ Antonia smiled and seemed to want to make light of it. ‘Five thousand pounds better off.’
‘Not if he signs that surrender form on Thursday.’
The point still appeared to elude Antonia. ‘So you’ve got four days to change his mind.’
‘Unless.’
‘Unless what, darling?’
‘Unless something happens to him.’
There was an interval when nothing was said. A syrupy Viennese waltz filled the silence. Antonia pushed some hair back from her forehead and looked far across the restaurant.
‘Well, Rose, my dear, you’d better say exactly what’s in your mind.’
‘I want him to have an accident, like you said the other day.’
There was a glint of amusement in the green eyes. ‘Did I?’
‘Don’t tease. You know you did. Outside the Ritz.’ ‘And you believed me, darling?’
‘For Christ’s sake, Antonia, if you weren’t serious, you’d better tell me, because I am.’
‘An accident? Well, it’s not impossible. I’d have to think about it.’ She traced her fingertip around the rim of her cup. ‘I suppose Barry had to give up the flying when he was demobbed?’
‘He hasn’t seen an airfield since the war.’
‘Does he drive?’
Rose shook her head. ‘We can’t afford a car on his income.’
‘This is difficult. Is he a swimmer?’
‘I’m afraid not. That is to say, I believe he can swim, but he doesn’t ever go near water. He’s not the athletic type.’
‘Is he the handyman type? Could he be persuaded to replace those missing tiles on your roof?’
Desperate as she felt, Rose couldn’t suppress a smile. ‘Good idea, but definitely not. He absolutely refuses.’
‘We’re not getting very far, are we? Suppose we go about this another way. You tell me everything he does from the moment he gets up in the morning.’
‘In detail?’
‘The more the better.’
‘I’ll try.’ Rose closed her eyes and concentrated. ‘Wakes up at 6.30 when the alarm goes. Groans. Heaves himself out and reaches for his slippers. Shuffles into the bathroom and uses the toilet. You asked for everything.’
‘I meant it. Don’t stop now.’
‘Goes to the washbasin and runs the hot tap. Swears when it comes out almost cold. Swishes some over his face. Makes a lather for a shave.’
‘What sort of razor?’
‘Safety, I’m afraid. Brushes his teeth.’
‘Toothpowder?’
‘Paste. Returns to the bedroom and dresses. Woollen underwear. Blue pinstripe. White shirt and collar. Any one of three striped ties. Meanwhile, I’ve slipped downstairs in my dressing-gown and cooked some porridge and made toast. He comes down and opens the Ideal boiler and empties the ashcan. This is frightfully boring.’
‘I’m hanging on every word.’
So Rose picked her way patiently through the daily routine until she had got Barry into bed again and switched out the light. ‘Well?’
‘His journey home. Go through it again.’
‘But I’ve told you it’s as safe as houses. The Stationery Office depot is just behind Harvey Nichols, so he walks around the corner to Knightsbridge tube station and gets a Piccadilly Line train to South Ken. He changes to the District Line and comes back to Victoria and walks it from there, straight down St George’s Drive. He’s home by a quarter past six, except for Fridays. He switches on the wireless and hears the last part of the news.’
‘What time does he leave work?’ ‘Half past five.’
‘Carrying his briefcase and umbrella?’
Rose gripped the edge of the table and leaned forward. ‘Have you thought of something?’
Some seconds passed before Antonia spoke. ‘Let’s get one thing straight, my flower. Did you mean every word you said about Barry? You really want him to have an accident?’
7
On Wednesday afternoons the Imperial College timetable was marked ‘Sport’. Some of the staff unselfishly turned out to referee football matches or cycle along the towpath shouting through megaphones. Vic went to bed with Antonia.