Why think of it? Why let it all run round in her head? Because she couldn't help it. Because whatever else she tried to think about, to concentrate on, their conversations and, worse, their embraces and the real passion she had thought he felt for her as she did for him, kept coming back, and with a fierce intensity. How could he have said the things he had, repeatedly told her he loved her, and then callously rejected her for a childish fixation? She didn't know how he could have, only that he had.
Gemma Wilson was back in the medical centre. A fortnight had gone by since Ella had prescribed sleeping tablets and now she wanted more. She had tried to do without them but her worries were keeping her awake. This time Gemma had brought Abelard with her and Ella, who had known him since he was born, seemed to look at him with new eyes. Had he ever appeared quite so beautiful to her before? He was the perfect blond blue-eyed infant, his skin pink and white, his body strong and neither plump nor thin. Ella, who had never before given much thought to him except to check on his health, now yearned for him.
Writing a second prescription, her head bent so that Gemma shouldn't see the tears that had come into her eyes, she said, 'He's a lovely boy, Gemma, a credit to you.'
'Yeah, I know. I love him to bits.'
'You're not worrying about him, are you?'
'It's my bloke, it's Lance. They reckon he'll be coming up for trial next month. And he never done that fire, Ella, I know he couldn't have.'
'No?'
A cautious look had come into Gemma's face. It was the kind of look that speaks defensiveness but at the same time a need to confess reprehensible things at no matter what cost.
'He wasn't near that house. He was in someone's place in the next street to yours, on the nick if you want to know the truth. It was September fourteen at one in the morning – well, September fifteen by then. Lance never hurt no one but he was on the nick in this lady's house that was away.'
And then Ella knew too. Without her usual warning about not getting into pill-taking habits, she handed the prescription to Gemma. She knew what she had to do and she had to do it quickly.
The films on offer were all on immoral themes. One was actually called American Gangster. All of them made a feature of gangsterdom and sexual licence. Instead of studying house prices in the free or discarded newspapers he picked up, Uncle Gib scanned the cinema pages for film ratings, the number of stars awarded each one by reviewers and what they said about dramatic content. Eventually he chose one showing at the Electric Cinema in the coming week. It was called Elizabeth; the Golden Age and was historical and very likely pretty to look at, which was something women liked. Its being set hundreds of years ago had nothing to do with its sexual content but any excesses would give him the opportunity to air his feelings, comparing the depravity of that era and this one. And this might be no bad thing in his efforts to present himself as a paragon.
This outing was to mark the first stage in his courtship. That was what you did, he remembered from the first time round, you took her to the pictures. And he had chosen the Electric, not only because it was the nearest cinema – after all, there were buses and what his dad had called Shanks's pony – but because it was there he used to take Ivy when they were courting. This memory had nothing to do with sentiment. Uncle Gib was essentially a practical man with an eye to the main chance. He knew the Electric. If it had been given a makeover and now comprised three or four theatres instead of just one, if it had been newly decorated, still it would hold no major surprises for him. It stood where it always had, its façade was the same, though now painted turquoise, and he could have found his way to it blindfold. Of course, in the old days you could smoke there – everyone did and some, though not Uncle Gib, smoked marijuana – but for years now the smoking ban operated there, as was lamentably true of every cinema in the United Kingdom and Europe too, for all he knew. But never mind. He could smoke at home, as he was beginning to refer to Maybelle's house. She had even taken up cigarettes herself, a move he saw as a tribute to her guest as a man of discernment.
His invitation was accepted but only after a sign of doubt. 'You don't think it's too soon after Reuben's passing, do you, Gilbert?'
'I wouldn't encourage you to do anything what was wrong, now would I?'
'No, that's true.' Maybelle struggled with her cigarette, trying to learn the art of inhaling.
'The only thing that bothers me is us living here together under the same roof. A single man and a single woman, I mean. If someone was to write to me at The Zebulun that they was doing that I'd have to advise against it. Maybe I should think of moving out.'
'Oh, don't do that, Gilbert,' said Maybelle, coughing.
He said no more. The seed had been planted.
There was nothing to be done about it. Lance Platt must take his chance. Those were Ella's first thoughts. Besides, if she called Eugene, what was to stop him putting the phone down as soon as he knew who it was? She couldn't call him. So her pride was to get in the way of doing what she could to give a man back his freedom? It wasn't so simple. Eugene might have forgotten, he might have made himself forget. He might refuse to do anything about it. She could write to him. This seemed to present insurmountable difficulties. She asked herself how she would begin the letter and how end it, how to refer to the past without letting love creep in or resentment or recriminations, and what she would do if he didn't reply. Surely the chances were that he wouldn't reply. He would tear up the letter and throw away the pieces.
She went home to her depleted and no longer comfortable flat, took a ready meal out of the freezer and poured herself a glass of wine. Every time she did this it reminded her of having wine with Eugene in the study and any enjoyment she might have had was lost. How about a broken heart as a cure for alcoholism? Not that she was in danger of either condition, she told herself firmly.
Gemma's anxiety had been at the back of her mind all day. She hardly needed reminding of it but an item on the BBC six o'clock news brought it back into the forefront. A man had appeared in court that day, charged with the murder of Feisal Smith, twentyeight, of Notting Hill, west London. The accused was Ian Pollitt, twenty-seven, of Harlesden, west London, and he was committed for trial and remanded in custody. It had nothing to do with the detention of Lance Platt, she was sure, but it reminded her of Gemma.
Ella switched off the television. She poured her wine down the sink. She knew what she had to do and it was best done without thinking about it. Hadn't someone in history or a play said that there was nothing good or bad but thinking made it so? She would walk. Even after only half a glass of wine she never drove. It was a mild damp evening, dark as midnight but bright lights polishing every surface. Although Guy Fawkes Day was past, fireworks were still going off and would go off somewhere every evening for weeks to come. Rockets made their high-pitched whine as they mounted into the dark-grey starless sky, bursting into a cascade of red and green sparks.
Most people would have advised her not to walk alone after dark through this part of London but she knew it well and the streets were full of people, dozens of them spilling out of the Fat Badger on to the pavement, drinking and laughing. I would like to drink and laugh, she thought, and not be alone.
No woman had ever held Gilbert Gibson's hand. There had never been the occasion to do so. In his day a man and woman walked arm in arm or separate from each other. Shaking hands with his friends was something he and his friends never did. But they had been sitting in the Electric cinema for no more than half an hour when he felt Maybelle's hand slipped into his. It was warm and soft and rather plump. His own had been lying on the seat arm between them and when hers locked into it, quite tightly at first, he moved the two joined hands to rest, not on his thigh or knee, but on the edge of the plush seat.