The sight of him dismayed her. Some of the strength she had gained through coming to terms with the truth oozed out of her. She attempted to be brisk, but could not.
‘Well?’ she said, and then cleared her throat because her voice was croaking.
‘I come up to say I’m sorry, Mrs Abigail. If there was any inconvenience, due to the sherry and the beer.’
‘The Commander and I would rather you didn’t return here, Timothy.’
‘I was trying to play a joke on you, dressing up and that. I thought we were on for charades. I didn’t mean to cause a kerfuffle.’
‘It would be better if you went.’ She shook her head at him. She tried to smile, attempting to indicate that she knew it wasn’t his fault, that he hadn’t known what he was doing. ‘The Commander and I are upset, Timothy.’
She heard a sound in the hall behind her and then Gordon was pulling at the hall door, opening it wider and shouting. In a high voice he used expressions she’d never heard before. His face had reddened. His eyes had a wildness about them, as though he might attack the boy, who was looking at him with his mouth open.
‘The kind of person you are, Gedge,’ the Commander shouted, ‘you should be locked away. You’re a bloody young devil. You can’t mind your own business. Can you, Gedge?’ shrieked the Commander. ‘Can you mind your own business?’
‘I do the best I can, sir.’
‘You can’t tell the truth, Gedge. You’re trying on a blackmail attempt. You can be had up for blackmail, you know.’
‘We’ll keep the secret, Commander. No harm at all. Easy as skinning a cat, Commander.’
‘You deserve to be birched. You spy on innocent people. You tell nothing but lies.’
‘I wouldn’t ever tell a lie, sir.’
‘You bloody young pup!’ screamed the Commander.
There was silence then. A door opened in a bungalow across the avenue. A figure stood in the rectangle of light, attracted by the noise. The Commander was quietly weeping.
‘It’s all right, Gordon,’ she said in a flat, emotionless voice. ‘It’s all right, dear.’
She tried to close the door but he was grasping the edge of it, supporting himself against it. He moaned and sobbed, clinging to the door. He said he thought he would commit suicide.
The boy didn’t go away. She couldn’t understand why he didn’t turn and go.
‘Lies,’ her husband sobbed, in a voice that was now so soft it could scarcely be heard. Spittle was running down his chin and dripping on to his clothes. His fingers still gripped the edge of the door, his small body was pressed against it. He’d been shy and fair-haired the Sunday afternoon he’d asked her to marry him, without any confidence in those days. She’d wanted to mother him. She’d wanted to press him to her and to stroke the thin, vulnerable nape of his neck. He had asked her to marry him because he was ashamed of himself, because he wanted to hide. For thirty-six years she had been convenient for this purpose. ‘Lies,’ he whispered again. ‘All lies about me.’
‘I was wondering about the cash that was owing,’ the boy said. ‘I was passing and I looked in. I was wondering if you’d agree to loan me the suit.’ He smiled at her, and then he mentioned the money and the suit again.
She prised her husband’s fingers from the edge of the door and pulled him into the hall. He was weeping more noisily now. She banged the door, pushing at it with her foot because her hands were occupied. After a moment the bell rang again, but this time neither of them answered it.
He didn’t mind. It wasn’t polite of them not to answer the door, knowing that he was standing there, but it didn’t really matter. Tomorrow or the next day he’d call in again and she’d hand him over the money and the suit. Just like Dass would get hold of a pair of curtains.
In the small car-park of the Artilleryman’s Friend he waited by a Vauxhall that had been abandoned there ten months ago. The public house was closed. All the other cars had been driven away.
From the back-yard came the sound of bottles rattling as Mr Plant stacked crates on top of one another. He whistled as he did so.
Timothy crossed the car-park, glad that the publican was whistling since it suggested good humour. He passed through an opening in a wooden fence into the yard, which was lit only by the light from within the house. Mr Plant was in his shirtsleeves. His three-legged dog was eating a cork.
‘Cheers, Mr Plant,’ Timothy said.
Bent over a crate of bottles, with his back to Timothy, Mr Plant gave a startled grunt. He turned and peered into the shadows where Timothy was standing.
‘Who’s that?’
‘It’s me, sir. Young Timothy.’
Mr Plant took a bottle from the crate and advanced towards his visitor with it. He spoke in a low voice, saying a man could have a heart-attack, being crept up on like that.
‘Get off my property, son. I warned you this morning.’
‘I thought maybe you’d have time to think it over, Mr Plant.’
‘Keep your bloody voice down. Are you stupid or something? No one messes me, son. Clear off immediately.’
The voice of Mrs Plant called out from behind a lighted upstairs window, wanting to know whom her husband was talking to.
‘I don’t want to cause you any kerfuffle, Mr Plant. We’ll keep the secret –’
Mr Plant drove the base of the bottle at Timothy’s stomach, but Timothy side-stepped away from it.
‘Mrs Plant,’ Timothy said quite softly, and Mr Plant whispered that if he issued another sound he would thump him to a pulp. He drove the bottle in the direction of Timothy’s stomach again and he reached out with the fingers of his other hand in order to grasp the back of Timothy’s head.
‘Mrs Plant,’ Timothy said again, a little louder than before.
‘For God’s sake!’ whispered Mr Plant, and without further argument he agreed to convey the tin bath from Swines’ yard to the rectory garden on the morning of Easter Saturday. ‘Hop it,’ he whispered furiously. ‘Get to hell out of here now.’
As Timothy went he heard the voice of Mrs Plant again, demanding more sharply to know whom her husband was conversing with. The publican replied that he’d been talking to his dog.
All during supper, eating a pork chop and cauliflower and mashed potatoes, Stephen had wanted to be alone. He’d pushed forkfuls of food into his mouth, chewing it mechanically, drinking water to make swallowing easier. If he’d left it Mrs Blakey would have made a fuss, she’d have wanted to take his temperature, she’d have asked questions he couldn’t answer.
In bed it was easier to think. He’d never even seen the wedding-dress the boy had mentioned. His mother had shown him lots of things, photographs and even odds and ends she’d had as a child, but she’d never shown him her wedding-dress. It seemed strange that it should still be there, in a trunk. It seemed too strange to believe. Surely it was a lie that the boy had looked through a window of Primrose Cottage and seen it? Surely it was part of a make-believe, like imagining you were playing number three for Somerset? Timothy Gedge was a horrible sort of person, talking about honeymoons like that, saying Kate’s mother was peachy. Of course it was all lies.
He fell asleep, but hours later he woke up and felt again – as he’d felt for a moment in the hall when he’d arrived – that he shouldn’t be in this house. There was something wrong, there was something the matter. He felt it, not knowing what it was, like a feeling in a dream. He remembered now the faded green trunk the boy had mentioned. He could see it quite clearly when he thought about it. He could see his father lifting the lid and taking out the wedding-dress, not knowing what to do with it now that he was getting married again. In the warmth of his bed Stephen shuddered. When he tried to think he was unable to, as though he didn’t want to think, as though he was afraid to. ‘Mummy died,’ his father said again, and there seemed to be something wrong with the way he said it.