Viola was woken by the telephone. (The only change she had made in the house since her parents’ death was to move a telephone into her room.) Dawn showed bleakly through the windows. Her instant thought was that Richard was in trouble. She was at once wide awake. But it was not his voice.
‘Viola?’
‘Yes?’
‘This is your friend Harry Antlers.’
‘Oh God, Harry.’
‘I’m calling you from New York.’
‘How did you get my number?’
‘That’s no business of yours. I’m through to you, that’s the main thing. Were you asleep?’
‘Yes.’
‘Sorry. I couldn’t wait any longer. Did some flowers arrive?’
‘Yes. Thank you.’
Her bare shoulders chilled by the early air, Viola had not the heart to tell him of the flowers’ fate. She lay back under the bedclothes, shivering: partly cold, partly the fear of the hunted.
‘Look,’ she said, as gently as she could, ‘you’re very kind, all these flowers. But please don’t send me any more. Two hundred roses is enough to last anyone a lifetime.’
‘Nonsense. By the end of your life you’ll have had two hundred thousand roses from me.’ A terrible threat, in the early light. ‘You’ll see.’
Viola laughed falsely. ‘Please, Harry. Don’t be silly. There are plenty of flowers here in the garden.’
‘Plenty of flowers here in the garden,’ he mimicked. ‘I’m sure there are. Some people are born into very privileged gardens, full of flowers. But is that the point, my love?’
Only great self-control stopped Viola shouting her protest at being referred to as Harry Antlers’ love: she was nothing of the kind. How dare he presume to refer to her as such? A jangle of answers clamoured through her head, but rejecting them all as impolite on a transatlantic phone call, she said nothing. There was a long pause. Then Harry repeated:
‘That isn’t the point, you idiot woman.’
He sounded so despairing that for a moment Viola was guilty of feeling unsympathetic towards so gloomy and pathetic a character. But at the same time a menacing quality in his voice clouded all clear thought and sensible answers. He had a strange capacity to make her feel in the wrong, and afraid, for all the distance between them. Hopelessly, she said:
‘This call must be costing you a fortune.’
‘Who cares about money?’
Viola sighed. ‘How’s the play going?’
‘Badly. But what do I care about the play?’
‘A lot, I should hope.’
‘I care for nothing that keeps me on the other side of the Atlantic from you.’
‘For heaven’s sake, Harry …’ Viola’s irritation boiled over. ‘You’re suffering from a terrible fantasy about me. Quite honestly, the sooner you get over it the better it will be for us both.’
‘I’m glad that’s what you like to think. But I don’t believe you. You’re not a girl who would not recognize truth when she saw it.’
There was a long pause. Viola’s mind whirled. What was he talking about? The sun was rising through her window. She wanted to slam down the receiver: his call was a loathsome intrusion into her uncontaminated room.
‘I’ve been hearing about you,’ he was saying. ‘I had lunch with a mutual friend of ours. She told me a lot about you. Very interesting it was, too.’
Despite herself, Viola’s curiosity was aroused.
‘Who was it?’
‘That doesn’t matter. The point is, I learned a lot about you. About all your lovers.’ There was a note of triumph in his voice.
‘Lovers? What are you talking about? I don’t know anyone in New York except for Gideon and Hannah, and Hannah doesn’t know anything about me.’
‘So I don’t know what you mean.’
‘It’s a possibility a friend of yours was over from London and I ran into her. New York’s a very small place. And you must remember not to trust your friends.’
As Viola’s mind reeled through friends who might have gone to New York, met Harry Antlers and told tales of her private life, a painful pressure of bone began to constrict her head. She felt physically sick at the thought of such betrayal. Shivering beneath the warm bedclothes, in her pain and confusion it never occurred to her Harry was so devious as to shoot poisoned arrows in order to get some reaction.
‘Everyone betrays everyone,’ he was saying. ‘You’ll learn that.’
‘Look, there’s not much point in continuing this conversation,’ said Viola weakly.
‘No. I can see it disturbs you. Must be disturbing, being reminded of old lovers so early in the morning. Are you with one of them now?’
‘I’m quite alone, but it’s nothing to do with you.’ Viola’s voice was shaking.
‘I’m sorry, my love, I seem to be upsetting you. That’s the last thing in the world I want to do. I’m just terribly lonely here in New York. I’ll be back with you as soon as I can.’
‘Please. I shan’t be here.’
‘Where will you be?’
‘I don’t know. I’m leaving here soon. I have to get a job.’
‘Worry not, little one. I’ll find you. I love you with my entire being. You realize that? I can’t let you escape now, can I? After a life’s search. I’d be mad. And don’t forget I know a lot more about you than you think I know. I love you, woman, do you hear me? Is sending roses across the Atlantic the act of a man who doesn’t —’
Viola slammed down the receiver. She buried herself beneath the bedclothes into a cocoon of complete darkness, as she used to as a child. She tried to control the shivering, to clear her mind. Much later, she heard the telephone ring again, but did not answer it. She did not get up till midday, the sun high in a summer sky, but blighted. Without warmth. Years later, looking back, she realized this had been the morning the bullying had started, and the horror of dealing with an irrational man had begun.
In New York, Harry Antlers kept himself from the daylight as much as possible. When he was forced to make brief excursions into the streets the sun bored painfully through his head, adding to the many other discomforts he suffered in mind and body. He ate hamburgers and milkshakes obsessively, but their tranquillizing effects were diminishing. He was aware of putting on weight. His clothes felt tight and uncomfortable. Sleep, which had never been elusive before, was now tormented. In the noisy, muggy nights, Viola’s nasty little voice, so cold on the telephone, played an endless tape in his head. By day, in the stuffy theatre, rehearsals went badly. Harry could not speak to his cast without shouting. Normally so articulate, so arrogantly fluent in his ideas, he found himself struggling to convey what he wanted. And everybody, a talentless lot, did everything wrong. Chris tied and retied his shoelaces more frequently and more sullenly. All about him people looked at Harry as if there was something the matter with him, while visions of Viola exploded endlessly in his head, obscene visions which goaded with relentless agony. It was time for revenge.
Revenge? When the idea came to Harry’s mind for the first time, he was shocked. In truth, it was the last thing he wanted: he knew its dangers. But if you loved a woman who did not realize she loved you, you must fight for her, breaking all rules if necessary. In the past his only fights had been to rid himself of the many girls who — once he had become successful — crowded him with their desperate love. (Before that, there had been years of shyness on his part, rejection on theirs.) Their attentions had flattered him, given him confidence. He had used them, but not loved them in return. Now, for the first time, he was bedevilled by total passion, and this lady seemed to have no care for the havoc she was causing him. If only he could show her a glimpse of his private vision — a somewhat hazy picture of domestic peace, a state Harry had never witnessed in reality — but it included thick carpets, bowls of flowers, a chuckling baby, and the constant Viola with open arms to welcome him home each evening, dinner waiting on the table. Oh, how he would love her! Overwhelm her. That was the way to keep things going … overwhelming: presents, proclamations, everything. His own childhood had proved to him there was nothing to be said for emotional parsimony. There had never been a word of love uttered in his parents’ house. Starved always of affection, friendship, understanding, here he was, now, a man locked in his own inadequacies — full of strange love which he could not handle. And so although the idea of revenge came unwanted from his well-meaning heart, there might be no alternative.
The play opened and was unanimously scorned by the critics. Harry did not care. He sat in his dim hotel bedroom, eating a vast breakfast as he read the papers, silently scoffing back at his detractors for not understanding the essence of the work. But their cruel jibes had no power to hurt. Nothing hurt but the absence of Viola.
The telephone rang. (It had been ominously silent for many days.) He pounced eagerly upon it, hoping against hope it would be Viola. But it was Hannah Bagle, condoling.
Harry was in no mood for sympathy, and had not given Hannah further thought since the day she rang him with Viola’s English telephone number. Now, hearing her gentle voice, an idea came to him: she could help in his revenge. He asked her round that afternoon. She accepted at once.
‘I have some information that might interest you, Harry,’ she said. This excited him. The five long hours till she was due passed in a state of barely controlled frenzy.
When Hannah arrived, punctually at five, she saw a desperate man. Slouched in the room’s one armchair, he looked pale, ill. His smile of greeting was also one of gratitude — something Gideon infrequently gave — and Hannah found his fat, ugly, pathetic state infinitely desirable. She sat on the end of the bed. Harry returned to his chair.
‘I’ll order drinks. What would you like? Thank God you’ve come.’
‘Nothing for the moment. Later, thanks.’
Hannah crossed her provocative legs and fiddled with gold chains at her neck. For his part, Harry observed she was his for the taking, and was glad there would be no struggle to involve her in his plans. But for the moment he was impatient for the news of Viola.
‘What have you heard? Tell me, quickly. Your interesting information.’ He gave the small, friendly laugh of a conspirator.
Hannah shrugged, maddeningly unhurried. ‘Oh, nothing much. I’m sorry if I gave you the impression it was very exciting. Only that Gideon let it drop the other night — I have to be very careful how I question him for fear of arousing his suspicions — that years ago Viola’d been in love with his best friend at Oxford. But nothing came of it. The friend married someone else, who’s mentally disturbed, and that was that, really. Although he and Viola remain friends.’
Harry sighed, disappointed. He had expected more useful ammunition, although there were ways of utilizing even such a paltry scrap.
‘Do you know his name?’
‘I didn’t ask.’
‘Do they still meet?’
‘I believe so.’
‘Anything else about the man? What he does? Does she still love him?’
‘He’s a doctor. That’s all I know.’
Harry sighed again, dissatisfied.
‘Look here, Harry,’ said Hannah, ‘if my only use to you is one of spy, or detective, then I think I’d better go.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ He smiled so warmly Hannah’s small flare of indignation was quelled. ‘Look, I’m sorry. You know my feelings about Viola, even if you can’t understand them. As you can imagine, I’m passionate to talk about her, to get to know more about her. But on the other hand, she’s miles away, there’s nothing I can do about her at the moment. And you’re here, just a few feet away from me, for heaven’s sake.’ Pause. ‘A lovely woman, Hannah Bagle …’
Hannah smiled, eyes down, flushed. She thought how Gideon, master in the school of British understatement, would scorn such dialogue. And she did not care. If Gideon had need of her, then he did not show it. While this strange, ugly man before her could be comforted. She could make use of her superior strength. She looked down to see he was unbuttoning her shirt.
‘Is this … forbidden?’ asked Harry, so gently that, had Hannah been that sort of woman, tears would have come to her eyes.
‘No.’ She trembled.
Then her breasts were exposed, Harry’s hands were upon them. He was kneeling on the ground, his head plunged between the breasts so that his hair tickled her chin, and she was cradling him like the child she would never contemplate having for fear of destroying her career. Harry was weeping. In all her various experiences, Hannah had never known a man cry in her arms before, and found it curiously stimulating. She brushed away his tears with fingers that she hoped were tender rather than nurse-like, and, surreptitiously glancing at her watch, wondered how long she would have to wait before Harry had spent his tears and would begin thinking of her pleasure. She whispered comforting words, flattered that the beauty of her body should have so devastating an effect upon a man, never guessing that his damp moaning was for himself and for the absence of Viola. The woman upon whose breasts he lay his self-pitying head for comfort was of no more significance to Harry than a hot-water bottle.
When he had finished with her, he was instantly overcome by the disagreeable state of having glutted his desire on something he had not really wanted. He lay back on the bed, listening to her having a hurried bath, watching her dress, without interest. She was flustered, late, and Harry cared not a jot for her anxiety. He did not even bother to raise himself from the bed as she prepared to leave. She knelt beside him, suffused with that temporary softness that overcomes the hardest woman after she has been seduced.
‘Goodbye, Harry.’
‘Forgive me for not coming down with you. They’ll get you a cab. As I’ve told you before, I’m not a gentleman.’
‘Will I see you again soon?’
‘Of course.’
‘I’d like to see you often, often.’
‘You will. You will, you will.’
‘Take care of yourself, Harry.’
She kissed him lightly on the eyes, tasting the salt of still damp lashes. He was a man who could sure worm his way into her heart, should he like to try …
When Hannah had gone, Harry breathed deeply with relief, exhausted. He dozed for a while, then woke in a calmer, happier state. The ammunition he had acquired through Hannah’s cooperation was invaluable. Tricking Viola’s brother meant that, in a confused way, Harry held a strong card. With a grim smile he picked up the telephone, got through to the airline and booked himself on a flight back to England the next day.
There is a rhythm to the solitary life, as Viola had discovered long ago. Many empty days go by, then comes a cluster of unexpected events. Some of these may change the whole direction of life, some may shift it just the slightest degree from the normal routine. On her return from America Viola had anticipated habitual quiet, and had already been surprised by three things: the good fortune in finding Alfred Baxter, Richard’s visit, and Harry Antlers’ telephone call from New York. A few days after that third, and disagreeable happening, came the fourth surprise, in the shape of a letter from her Uncle David.
Uncle David, her father’s brother, was a millionaire anthropologist: an elderly and eccentric man who spent most of his time in the jungles of Brazil. On the rare occasions he was in England he had always shown a particular concern for Viola, and indeed several generous cheques since her parents’ death had saved her from financial difficulties on many occasions. He now had a typically benevolent proposal to make to her.
The sitting tenant in the top-floor flat of his house in Holland Park had died, and it required complete renovation. Knowing Viola enjoyed that sort of thing, he wrote, he wondered if she would care to undertake the task for him, for which he would provide a handsome budget. In return, she could treat the flat as her own, rent free, until such time as he sold the whole house. He was returning to South America in a week’s time, and would be obliged if Viola could let him know her decision before he left, so that they could arrange finances and keys. Until the flat was ready for habitation, he would be delighted if she lived in his part of the house, where she had stayed many times before. ‘You may run into a quiet, scholarly fellow,’ he wrote, ‘son of a friend of mine, one Edwin Hardley. He’s writing a book on moths — been writing it for about twelve years, and seems to prefer working in my library to his own flat or the British Museum. He’s a silent sort of chap, wouldn’t do a thing to hurt you. In fact, I call him Hardley There: his presence is so transparent, somehow, you’re scarcely aware of him even when he’s in the room. Do hope the whole plan might appeal.’
This was a cheering and unexpected solution to the menacing worries that were beginning to accumulate in Viola’s mind. Amazed by such well-timed luck, her morning was suddenly sparked by plans. Once Alfred Baxter and the mending of the roof here were settled, she would go to London to convert the flat and find herself a job. The adrenalin of ideas began to flow, uncontainable. She immediately sat down to write her uncle a letter of grateful acceptance and then, still restless, jotted down the beginnings of a poem which came to her in a blinding strike of light. She had always been ashamed of her attempts at poetry, shown them to no one and hidden them away. She had no doubt they were of little merit, but she was unable to resist writing them when the Muse, or whatever, was upon her. By the end of the day she felt something was accomplished: a poem, and a letter confirming plans for a change in life. With a new peace of mind she lit the fire and sat listening to a concert on the radio. When the telephone rang she knew instinctively it was Harry Antlers, not Richard, and did not answer it. It continued to ring many times during the night. Viola ignored it with great satisfaction, and when at last she slept she dreamed of walking for miles along the empty beach with Richard. She remembered, in her dream, to tell him about the picnic she had observed at the wreck: the stillness of the ghost ladies in the fluttering dresses. But Richard’s only reaction was to turn to her and say:
‘Oh, Viola, you must be mad, too.’ He looked distressed, gazing at the far-off wreck where there were no picknickers to be seen. And in her dream Viola understood his distress: he did not want two mad women in his life.
By the time Harry’s plane landed at Heathrow he was in a state of such frenzied impatience that regulations had become barriers designed for his annoyance alone. Passport control, waiting for the baggage, Customs … Harry stomped about gleefully noticing the effect he had upon calmer passengers. Alarmed by his audible snorts and furious face, they backed away from him, nudging, whispering, fearing attack from the apparent madman among them. Their unease further spurred Harry’s mania. Free with his suitcase at last, he ran clumsily to the taxi rank. There he shouted at the driver to speed as if it were a matter of life or death.
But such disorderly emotion spends itself quickly. In the journey to London, heavy rain making the taxi a watery cage, the strength went from Harry. It left him cold and weak. He craved hot food, dreaded the silent dampness which he knew awaited him in his bleak bedsitting-room.
Heavy with self-pity, he dragged himself up the narrow staircase of the semi-detached house which had been his unambitious home for the past ten years. A dark passage beside the stairs led to the steamy quarters of his spinster landlady. It was her preoccupation with washing clothes — rather, boiling them in preserving pans on the stove — that Harry believed sent dampness billowing into his own quarters. Beside the clothes the landlady boiled daily quantities of vegetables and stew. The combined smells of hot soap and murky food was vile in the air. They greeted Harry with sickening familiarity. He determined to complain once more when he was next in a strong mood, loth though he was ever to enter the landlady’s kitchen. But for the moment there were more urgent matters to be considered.
An hour later, from the shallows of an ugly tweed chair, Harry surveyed his aloneness. Temporary numbness of feeling had come from a packet of stale biscuits and a bowl of powdered mushroom soup. Rain continued to pour with slatey sound against the windows. The gas fire hissed, unwarming. A large pile of opened letters lay scattered on the floor. Harry recognized the false calm before another outbreak of maddened desire, and picked up the telephone.
He dialled Viola’s number — a number by now indelible in his mind. It rang for a long time, the rhythmic buzz soothing, simply because it manifested some connection with the one he loved. Eventually he replaced the receiver, dispirited but not deterred. Looking at his watch, he saw that it was almost five. He calculated that by the time he had had several hamburgers at his local Wimpy, he could be in Norfolk by 8.30.
Standing, he took from his pocket a small jeweller’s box and opened it. There lay a round black stone veined with white. He did not know its name but, in New York, trembling as he chose it, had thought it beautiful. The shopkeeper had said it was a most unusual brooch, and it had cost Harry far more than he could afford. But here, in this gloomy room, sodden plane leaves slapping at the windows, its magic had quite gone. Gloucester’s eye, it was, now: plucked, solidified, turned to stone. The thought made Harry shiver. He hurried back down the damp stairs, slammed the warped front door and hurled the brooch far into the gutter. (One day it would be replaced with diamonds.) There was urgency upon him again. Head down, smeared glasses impeding the view, Harry charged the rain.
Richard’s surprise visit had alerted Viola to more surprises. She anticipated that, in the short time she was to remain at home before going to London, he might appear several times. She determined to be more ready for him when he came again. And so each evening she tidied the kitchen a little, saw that there was enough food and wine for supper, and put his favourite Schubert on the record player.
The fact that Richard did not come for several nights left her undismayed. She was strong with the certainty of his return at some time, felt curious pleasure in exercising patience. But patience is capricious, deserts its captor without warning to leave the nerves exposed and shivering once again. On the third night of waiting Viola felt the warmth of certainty stripped from her. Such doubts and fears assailed her that despite a lighted fire she felt quite cold.
And so on this particular evening she paid especial attention to her preparations. She took the chill of her flesh to be a warning, a premonition. Tonight Richard would appear and she had no intention of letting him catch her unawares. All traces of the anguish she felt would be wholly disguised. A bath first, for warmth. Then she dressed, choosing clothes with care: an old silk shirt so large it must once have belonged to Gideon, but whose soft sleeves, rolled up, gave protection: a wide belt of frayed silver leather, punched with silver studs, that emphasized the Edwardian smallness of her waist, and which Richard had often admired. Quite pleased with her appearance, and at the same time scorning her own vanity, she returned to the kitchen and lit the fire. She turned on Elgar’s cello concerto, a piece she had always considered of such dignified sadness that it should be used as a remedy by anyone venturing towards the shades of self-pity. She polished apples on her skirt, studied her mother’s old shopping lists hanging from the dresser. Mince for cottage pie, she read, and wished she could remember the forgotten day on which her family, all alive, had eaten that pie. The Colonel and his love of Worcestershire sauce …
There is madness in waiting, thought Viola.
At ten past nine she went to the window. It had been raining heavily all day, had now stopped. But the sky glowered over the garden ready to burst again. Viola stayed at the window, eyes searching the clouds, waiting for the first drop on the glass. But it did not come, and the music and the shuffling of the fire behind her were but rags of sound thrown over the fundamental silence. Then the front door bell rang.
Viola stirred. It rang again, and again. Viola merely went to the fire, stood so that its heat flared up her back, instantly warming the silk of her shirt. She surveyed the kitchen, defiant. For some reason, perverse even to herself, she did not wish to go to the door and open it. Rather, she would wait for Richard to come round here, as he had before.
There were footsteps in the passage outside. A pause. The kitchen door opened. Harry Antlers stood there.
‘Hello, my love,’ he said.
Viola felt the flames scorch her back. Her shirt pounded. She took a deep breath in the hope that it would steady her voice.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.
‘Oh, I can see what kind of a greeting I am going to get. I should have imagined it, the rapturous greeting.’
Harry stepped further into the room, slamming the door behind him. Despite herself, Viola jumped. Harry’s eyes scoured her nervousness. Then he cupped a hand over them as if to secure the vision of her in his mind. Viola’s fingers played among the studs on her belt. When eventually he took away his hand, he smiled, as if with a great effort of selfcontrol.
‘I’m sorry if I’ve interrupted your evening. I’m sorry if my presence is inconvenient. Were you waiting for someone?’
‘No,’ answered Viola, after a long pause.
‘Perhaps, then, you’d grant me the decency of the minimum of hospitality. I’ve come a long way to see you. I left New York this morning, only stopped in London long enough to get my car. I’ve been circling round your bloody Norfolk lanes for hours. I’m wet and hungry. God, I’m hungry. Would it be too much to ask for a simple piece of cheese? A glass of wine? Or milk? Anything.’
Pulling off his jacket, Harry Antlers strode to the fire. He flung the jacket on the back of a chair, turned it to the flames. Viola moved to the fridge. After some searching she took from it a saucer holding a small wedge of Brie.
‘Cheese,’ she said.
Harry, from his position by the fire, sneered down at it.
‘I meant real cheese,’ he said. ‘The sort of thing people from my background call cheese. You know, or perhaps you don’t, being such a grand lady. Cheddar.’
‘I’m sorry … It’s all I have.’
Even as she heard her own words, Viola cursed herself. It was ludicrous to find herself apologizing for having no Cheddar for this unwanted and unwelcome visitor. She returned the Brie to the fridge.
‘There’s a cold sausage,’ she said.
‘A cold sausage? That should keep me going for a while,’ Harry scoffed.
Viola went to him, holding out a plate. Harry took the sausage. There was a long silence while he admired it intently. Viola, heart fearfully pounding as she looked upon the disagreeable mass of this ugly, bitter man, felt irrational guilt again. The sausage was undercooked.
‘Very appropriate,’ said Harry at last. ‘Thanks. And could you, perhaps, run to a slice of bread and marge to accompany this very wonderful sausage?’
‘Of course. And there’s some wine …’
‘Wine? You amaze me. Your hospitality.’
While Viola clumsily buttered a crust of stale bread — all that remained in the bin — and poured a glass of wine, Harry observed his surroundings. They did nothing to mellow his unease. Spurred by acute hunger now, he felt his old rage kindle within him. He loathed the untidy arrogance of the room: the high ceiling, the faded prints hung low on the walls, rush matting split and frayed on the stone floor — the feel and smell of a room that has housed a happy family for many years. Suddenly he stood, unable to contain himself any longer, full of the fury of one threatened by a past he has not shared. Viola handed him the bread. He snatched it from her, banged it down on the table.
‘Privileged bitch,’ he said quietly. ‘Typical of your kind.’
He swung round to the sink, grabbed an empty milk bottle and, turning back to Viola, smashed it against the edge of a chair. The neck broke, fell to the floor with a small chink. Harry waved the rest of the bottle triumphantly, pointing the end of jagged glass at Viola. She screamed. Harry laughed.
‘I come all the way from New York to see the only woman I’ve ever loved and I’m given a cold sausage!’
‘Get out! Or I’ll call the police!’ Viola’s voice was faint. She wondered how she was going to get to the telephone.
‘Ah, the melodramatic little lady —’
‘— and put that bottle down.’
Viola lunged unthinkingly at Harry, locked the thick wrist that held the bottle in both her hands, nails digging into his flesh. Strangely, he did not fight back. At the touch of her, all strength seemed to ebb from him. He sagged, put the bottle gently back on the table, slumped down into the chair by the fire. ‘Oh, my God, my love, I’m sorry.’ Sweat on his brow, tears in his eyes. ‘You’ll never believe me, I’m a total bastard — but I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. Please forgive me if you can.’
Viola, shaking, handed him the bread which he ate wolflike in one mouthful, butter smearing and glistening at the corners of his mouth. Then he drank the glass of wine. The fire spat and crackled. Viola looked at the jagged glass teeth of the broken milk bottle.
‘Please,’ she said. ‘Just go. If you leave now, with no fuss, I won’t call the police.’
Harry smiled. ‘That’s good of you.’ He put out a hand towards her. She backed out of his reach. ‘You’re trembling. Don’t tremble. No need. Here, come nearer to the fire. Let me hold your hand.’
Viola looked down on him. She could feel no sympathy in her heart, only a strong revulsion such as she had never known before. It froze and numbed her limbs. She did not move. Harry, wiping his mouth with a grubby handkerchief, made a soft, whimpering noise like a chained dog under a full moon.
‘I don’t think you can begin to conceive what I feel — the agony I’ve been through.’
‘No.’
‘And you probably don’t care.’ ‘No.’
‘But I’m not going to give up.’ He smiled, almost twinkling. ‘When a man has found his ultimate prize he doesn’t let it go that easily. All my life, till meeting you, I’ve been stumbling along in the darkness. Don’t you see?’
‘I’m not interested. Please understand that. I’m sorry if I’ve caused you so much despair, but I don’t want to know or hear of your feelings any more. I don’t want any more to do with you, please. And I don’t want you in this house. I don’t want you ever to come back …’ Her voice rose. Harry stood. ‘Oh, this is ridiculous. This isn’t ordinary behaviour.’
‘Quite.’ Full of calm sympathy now the rage was exorcized, Harry was able to laugh. ‘Well, there’ll be no more such behaviour, I promise, if you give up fighting. Just submit to what you know in your heart you want —’
‘You’re mad, Harry Antlers. The only thing in the world I want from you is that you should go, and never attempt to see me again.’
‘Calm down, little one. I’m off. I’m looking forward to another long drive through the rain, driven out … No, don’t worry: I am going. But I must eat something first. I can’t drive another mile on an empty stomach. I don’t believe there isn’t something in a great house like this …’
He began to move about the kitchen, touching things, opening biscuit tins, tapping glass jars of rice and sultanas. It was then a new fear flared in Viola: he would find the larder and the cold chicken pie — the pastry had taken up most of her morning — which she had made in case Richard came. Even as this terror gripped her, Harry opened the larder door. Viola screamed.
‘Come out of there!’
Very calm, Harry turned back into the kitchen holding the chicken pie.
‘Look what I’ve found. Isn’t this wonderful? A pie.’
‘Get out, please. Go.’
Viola tried to snatch the pie from Harry, but he held it out of reach above her head.
‘No fighting, now. I’ll eat as fast as I can then leave you as I promised. For the moment,’ he added, ominously. He sat down at the far side of the table, picked up a nearby fork and dug into the pastry.
In the silence, now that the music had stopped, the sound of Harry’s eating struck every nerve in Viola’s body. Unable to bear the sight of him, creamy sauce and flakes of pastry askew on his chin, she went over to the sink, folded her arms to give herself support, and stared out at the night sky. A small part of her mind could observe the absurdity of the situation: woman helpless in her own kitchen while unwanted man ravishes chicken pie made with love for another. But the humorous element was not strong enough to overcome the horror and the fear.
It was one of those summer nights when there is no denseness to the dark, when small clouds shimmy about the moon, restless in their duty of casting shade over the land till dawn. The rain had stopped, leaving a faint glitter on the leaves. The tide must have been out, for there was no whisper of the sea.
Viola heard a footstep on the path, a cautious scrunch of gravel. She tightened. Not wishing to indicate by movement that she had heard anything, she strained her eyes. She saw the shape of Richard. He seemed to stare at her, then past her. She was about to shout for his help when he backed away, over the lawn: a lithe, surprised motion. He quickly disappeared through the gate that led to the marsh.
Viola took a deep breath to help control. She turned to face Harry. He had pushed the pie away from him, entirely eaten but for a few bits of pastry that clung to the sides of the dish. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘Your lover, I suppose,’ he said. ‘Yes, I saw him.’ Viola opened her mouth. Harry put up his hand. ‘Don’t bother to deny it: I know all about your lovers, past and present. Well, I’m sorry if I disturbed an assignation. I’m sorry if I’ve eaten the bastard’s dinner, too. But it was very good, and my need was greater than his.’ He stood, benign from the food, and smiling. ‘I’m going now, but I warn you. I shan’t be far away. Hope the thought won’t disturb your screwing.’
At this word, in connection with Richard so obscene and so far from the truth, a searing rage and indignation flared in Viola so that her whole body trembled. But she managed to speak quietly.
‘Harry Antlers,’ she said, ‘you need medical help.’
Harry smiled charmingly. ‘How touching you are in your concern! But I don’t need a doctor, thank you. I’m merely struck by an illness for which there’s only one remedy, and that remedy will soon be mine.’
He moved clumsily to the door, flung a final look of scorn about the room. Then he turned to Viola, menacing.
‘But there’s one thing you must know, and never forget. When a man loves in the way that I do, there’s no holding him. He’s filled with a demon energy that knows no bounds. He will go to any length to get what he wants, any means. And strangely — you must believe this — it’s remarkably easy to find out all one wants to know. This man, this doctor in your life — there’s little I don’t know about him, for instance. Loved him for years, haven’t you? Perhaps you know how it feels, then: wanting. Perhaps even a beautiful girl like you knows the despair of wanting. I hope so.’
He was gone, the door banged behind him. Viola heard the muffled revving of his car. Then merciful silence, but for small shifts among the dying logs in the fire.
Viola screamed out loud, a wordless spewing forth of all the things held back since seeing Richard in the garden. Then she ran to the window, banged it with shaking hands, her fingers scrabbling among the moving clouds, calling his name, calling his name. From the window she ran to the dresser, picked up the telephone and dialled his number. It rang for a long time, but there was no answer. Shaking, she ran again, footsteps frantic on the flagstones, to both doors, making fast the old bolts and turning the huge keys in their solid locks. Turning, the sight of the empty pie dish on the table, parsley sauce solidifying on the prongs of the fork, renewed the horror. The solid comforting things of this womb kitchen, protection for a lifetime, had tonight been cracked beyond recognition, ravaged by Harry Antlers’ loathsome presence. His threats savaging through her, Viola went to the fire, crouched down before it, hands stretched out to the last of the flames. Victim now of a terrible fear, the violation of her peace causing an unearthly chill to her flesh, she clutched painfully at her own arms in all her wretchedness. Escape was her only thought.