At the crossroads he asked if I minded walking a few yards to the bridge; it was as though he wanted an excuse for not returning home (or was it superstition, as though, if he did not hurry back, all would be well?’). It was a moonless night, and the stars were faint, but there was a glimmer on the river. All of a sudden a November meteorite scorched its way across the sky, and then another.
‘More energy there than we shall make,’ said Martin, nodding in the direction of the establishment.
Now that my eyes were accustomed to the light I could make out the expression on his face. It was set and sad — and yet he was controlling his voice, he was beginning to speak seriously, about the project.
‘By the way,’ he said, ‘I suppose the people here are putting some pressure on you?’
I said yes.
‘They want you to invest in this place in a big way?’
Again I said yes.
‘As long as you all realize that nothing here is within years of being tested—’ He broke off, and then said: ‘It would be very nice for me if Rudd’s show came off. I should get some reflected glory, which I could do with.’
For a moment his voice was chilled, as though his secret thoughts were too strong: but I understood.
‘You don’t think it will come off?’
He paused.
‘I haven’t got the grasp some of these people have, you know, and most of them believe in it.’ Then he added: ‘But I shouldn’t like you to plump for it too far.’
‘What’s the matter with it?’
‘I think your own reputation will look nicer,’ he said, ‘if you go fairly slow this time.’
It was not until we were walking towards his house that he said: ‘I can’t explain why I’m not convinced. I wish I were better at this game, then perhaps I could.’
When we had mounted to his landing above the Mounteneys, there was no light under the door. As soon as we were inside the room Martin said, and for an instant his voice had become unrecognizable: ‘I detest living in other people’s houses.’
In that instant his face was white with temper. Was he thinking that Emma Mounteney would know the exact time that Irene climbed up the stairs? Then he spoke, once more calmly: ‘I think I’d better wait up for her. I don’t think she’s taken a key.’
6: Morning Before the Office
NEXT morning I woke out of heavy sleep, and was dragged at by a memory of muttering (it might have been a dream, or else something heard in the distance) from the bedroom next door. When I got up and went into breakfast, Irene told me that Martin had already left for the laboratory. She was wearing a dressing-gown, her voice was quiet but tight; without her make-up, she looked both drabber and younger.
In silence I ate the toast and jam of a wartime breakfast. Looking down from the window into the sunny morning, I could see the river flash through the elm branches. I was aware that her gaze was fixed on me.
Suddenly she cried out: ‘Why do you dislike me so?’
‘I don’t,’ I said.
‘I can’t bear not to be liked.’
Very quickly, almost as though she had been rehearsing it, she told me a story of how, when she was twelve, she went to stay with a ‘glamorous’ school friend, and how the other girl had been asked by an aunt. ‘Who is your best friend? Is Irene your best friend?’ And the answer had come, polite and putting-off, ‘Oh, Irene has so many friends.’
‘I couldn’t face her again,’ said Irene, and then: ‘I wish you would like me.’
‘It doesn’t matter to either of us.’
‘I want you to.’ Her tone was at the same time penitent, shameless, provocative; it was easy to imagine how she spoke to her husband.
I had to rouse myself.
‘You want it both ways, you know,’ I said.
‘What have I done against you?’ she burst out defiantly.
‘Nothing.’
‘Then why can’t we get on?’
‘You know as well as I do. Do you expect me to approve of you as my brother’s wife?’
‘So that’s it,’ she said.
‘Don’t pretend that’s news,’ I said. ‘Why have you started this — this morning?’
She had crossed over to the window seat, and was watching me with sharp eyes, which were beginning to fill with tears.
‘You’ve taken against me, just because I couldn’t stand the very thought of those people last night.’
‘You know perfectly well that’s not all.’
‘Would you like me to tell you what I was really doing?
I shook my head. ‘You’re not a fool. You must realize that you’re damaging him—’
‘I suppose my dear friends were wondering who I’d taken to bed, weren’t they?’
‘Of course.’
‘Who did they think?’
I would not reply.
‘Whose name did you hear?’ she cried.
Impatiently I repeated Emma’s question about T—. She gave a yelp of laughter. She was for an instant in high spirits, nothing but amused.
‘They can’t think that!’
She stared at me: the tears had gone.
‘You won’t believe me, but they’re wrong. It wasn’t him, it wasn’t anyone. I just couldn’t stand their faces any more. I had to get out on my own. They’re hopelessly wrong. Please believe me!’
I said: ‘Whether they’re right or wrong — in a place like this you mustn’t given anyone an excuse to gossip, it doesn’t matter whether it’s justified or not.’
‘How often I’ve heard that,’ she said with a glint in her eyes.
‘When?’
‘All night long. Do you think you’re the first to scold me?’ She looked at me, and went on: ‘He was specially angry because you were here to see.’
After a moment, I said: ‘That’s neither here nor there.’
‘Isn’t it?’ said Irene.
‘The only thing I’ve got a right to talk about,’ I said, ‘are the practical consequences. Unless you want to damage his career, the least you can do for Martin is behave yourself on the outside.’
‘I promised him that this morning,’ she said in a thin voice.
‘Can you keep your promise?’
‘You needn’t worry.’ Her voice was thinner still.
Then she stood up, shook herself, went to the looking-glass and remained there, studying her reflection.
‘We ought to be moving soon,’ she said, her voice full again, brisk, and matter-of-fact. ‘These people aren’t altogether wrong about me. I may as well tell you that, though I expect you know.’
I was getting up, but she said no, and sat down opposite me.
‘They’ve got the idea right, but it’s my past coming back on me.’ She added, without emotion: ‘I’ve been a bad girl. I’ve had some men.’
Yes, she would have liked to be an adventuress: but somehow she hadn’t managed it. ‘Perhaps you’ve got to be cooler than I am to bring it off,’ she said, half-mystified.
It was she who had been used, not her lovers; and there was one who, when she thought of him, still had power over her.
‘Martin knew about him before we married,’ she said. ‘Have you heard of Edgar Hankins?’
I had not only heard of him, but ten years before had known him fairly well.
‘I loved him very much,’ she said. She went on: ‘I ought to have made him marry me.’