Of course the theatre wasn’t an easy way to make a living. There would be difficult times, no doubt. Periods when he’d be resting. But how much better to be out of work doing something you really enjoyed. All he had to do was break in. Brian saw himself directing not hulking, talentless adolescents but a group of dynamically motivated young actors in a rehearsal room at the Barbican or Stratford. A parp parp reminded him the lights had changed.
He drove on, dreaming. The VW, like a tired beast of burden at the end of the day, wended its way home. They were on the outskirts of Midsomer Worthy when Brian, in the midst of assuring Kenneth Branagh that no, he had not made a mistake in tackling his first Lear so young and that together they would not only crack it but triumph, was recalled to the present by the sight of a small crowd gathered round the notice board in the middle of the Green.
Debarred by a couple of inconsiderate motorists from parking outside Trevelyan Villas, Brian fetched up almost parallel to the little gathering, got out of his car and noticed that quite a large proportion of it was staring in his direction. Intrigued, he looked carefully both ways and started to cross the shiny wet tarmac to see what the matter was.
As he did so Gerald’s murder came into his mind. It had been days since he had given it so much as a thought and he only did so now because it occurred to him that something relative to the case might have been pinned up on the notice board. A ‘Have You Seen This Man’ notice for instance. Or an identikit poster of someone the police would like to interview.
The crowd parted biblically as Brian drew near. Some people turned away, others distanced themselves. One man leered and winked and Brian, puzzled, stared back. The board was covered with photographs of himself and Edie. They were all in transparent plastic covers to protect them from the elements and firmly secured by drawing pins. Though Edie’s face was not visible the rest of her more than made up for it. Brian had been granted no such anonymity.
He stared at this lubricious display, resting a hand on the edge of the board to support himself. There was a roaring in his ears and he felt weirdly disoriented, as if on the verge of going under an anaesthetic.
The leering man said, ‘Are you OK, mate?’
Brian did not hear. Slowly he tried to remove the pictures, but his fingers, large and thick with cold, could get no purchase on the drawing pins. He attempted to prise one out with his thumb but only succeeded in bending the nail savagely backwards, causing great pain. Eventually he just tore the things off, leaving shreds of plastic and triangular paper corners behind. He scrunched the photographs up, stuffed them into his pocket, turned and walked straight out into the road, which was fortunately empty. Then he made his way blindly towards the house, unaware that the bundle of villagers was following.
The gate seemed stuck. Brian pushed hard and noticed something behind it, blocking the way. It was his typewriter. He squeezed through the gap and bent down to pick it up. The latest episode from Slangwhang was still in there, sticking damply to the roller.
Now Brian could see all sorts of other things strewn over the straight and narrow path leading to the front door. Tapes, books, clothes. Records in bright sleeves. His silver cup for elocution. Ties, shoes. Oliver, his Gonk.
He moved slowly up the path, still carrying his Smith Corona. He picked his way carefully, but still managed at one point to tread hard on the bright, sweetly smiling faces of the Nolan Sisters. Rain began to fall.
He put the machine down on the step and searched for his key. It would not fit the Yale lock, which he now noticed was unusually bright and shiny. He moved sideways across the garden, muddying his trainers and trouser turn-ups, to tap on the sitting-room window.
Sue, her hair tied back with a velvet ribbon, was sitting at a table, painting. The oil lamp had been lit and her profile, serenely engrossed, was clearly outlined against a soft, golden haze.
Brian rapped again. The rain was coming down in earnest. His audience, standing around on the pavement, turned its collective coat collar up. One woman shook open a transparent plastic hood and covered her hair.
Sue dabbled her brush in a jar of clear water and wiped it on a cloth. Then she got up in a calm, unhurried way and left the room. Brian ran back to the front door. There was a soft little click as the letter box was lifted and an envelope fell on to the mat outside the door.
He snatched it up and, sheltering as best he could under the narrow lintel, tore it open. The message inside was brief. In future his wife would be communicating with him only through her solicitor, whose address and telephone number were enclosed. For the next few days at least Amanda would be staying with her grandparents.
Brian splashed his way back to the window and rapped for a third time. But Sue, staring fixedly well above his head, was already drawing the curtains.
‘How do you feel?’
‘OK.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re shaking.’
‘Only outside.’
‘Can I get you something?’
‘I’m all right, Amy, honestly.’
Sue turned away from the shrouded window. Amy got up from the old rexine pouffe which had been pushed into one of the alcoves. She had been tucked away there since the first enquiring scrape of Brian’s key at the brand-new keyhole.
Realising her hands were still clenched, Amy slowly opened them and stretched her fingers. Then she looked concernedly across the room to where Sue was standing very upright, holding her shoulders rigidly, like a soldier on parade.
‘Do you think he’ll try the back door?’
‘Perhaps. It’s bolted.’ Sue’s voice was husky, as if she had a cold.
‘Windows?’
‘Locked.’ She made a strange sound which could have been a cough or the beginnings of an exclamation. ‘Don’t worry. He can’t get in.’
‘I’m not worried.’ That wasn’t quite the case, though it would be true to say Amy was certainly a lot less worried than she had been when Sue had rung up nearly an hour ago and demanded that she come straight round. Honoria had answered the telephone and had been so taken aback by the urgent and uncompromising manner in which Sue had spoken that she had done little more than pass the message on. Amy had left immediately.
Arriving at her friend’s she had found Sue in the front garden throwing shirts and pyjamas all over the place. Then she had gone back inside and Amy had followed, skipping and jumping over an assortment of garments.
‘What on earth’s the matter?’ she had cried as soon as the door was closed. ‘What’s happened?’
Sue was panting slightly. She held out her arms, as if to prove to her own satisfaction they were really empty, then said, ‘All gone.’
‘What are all those things doing outside?’ Amy tried to take Sue’s hand but it was snatched away. ‘Please, Sue - tell me.’
‘Had the locks changed. A man came from Lacey Green.’ Sue stared around with stern purposefulness as if she were taking an inventory. Amy did so too. It seemed to her that several things were missing, although she could not have quite said what they were.
‘Of course it will be temporary. My solicitor told me. Things will have to be sorted. But I’m entitled, he said. And why not? Earned it, I’ve earned it. They’ll be at his mother’s. Staying. See how she likes it. Jumping. Feet on cushions. Cartoons. Thump thump thump thump thump thump. Thinks they’re angels. Do no wrong. See how she likes it. See how she—’