Harry Antlers kept watch for several days. He parked his car some way up the street from Viola’s front door and settled himself behind many a newspaper, too alert to do any real reading. His many hours of patience were rewarded by several sightings. Once he saw Viola enter the house carrying large carrier bags and tins of paint. Another time she was accompanied by a scruffy-looking man in white overalls, provoking in Harry acute agitation. It took him several moments to recover when he realized the man was a builder or painter. On a third occasion, an evening, just as Harry had started his engine to leave, Viola came running out of the house in a great hurry and hailed a passing taxi. Distant though his view of her was, Harry could see that she always looked as beautiful as he remembered, and his desire to run after her and throw himself at her feet was only quelled by the hurried swallowing of a packet of fruit drops he found in the glove compartment.
Harry had worked out that the longer he left Viola alone, the easier his next attempt to woo her would be. Surely she would at least give him a grateful smile; even that would be rewarding. And then he would be so gentle and loving to her, no matter how violent the emotions that seared him, that she would see a new man in him, and, surely, be intrigued at last.
He planned his next foray on the evening before he left for Sweden. This Harry thought a subtle piece of strategy. For if, as he supposed, this time Viola was conquered, and then started to behave like all the other girls in his life — well, telephoning him, she would find out from his answering machine he was away. Not that he wanted to play games with Viola: his love for her was much too serious for that. But in Harry’s experience, a little rough treatment, a touch of unavailability every now and then, did wonders for increasing ardour. On the other hand, were she still to remain stubborn and resistant, silly bitch, then he could glut his fury on some of the nubile Swedish ladies who were to appear in his film. That, at least, would be some antidote to the physical pangs, if not to those of the heart.
Harry put great effort, all day, in preparing himself for the meeting. He had decided against asking Viola out to dinner: a girl can escape quite easily from a restaurant. By the time the bill was paid, she could have made such a good start it was impossible to catch up. He decided, instead, to approach the vast house in which she apparently lived alone, at about ten at night. Ten had always been a propitious hour for him: time when intimations of weariness in a lady can magically be transformed.
But it was a long day and evening to wait. To rid himself of excess adrenalin, Harry tried walking through Hyde Park, a way of passing the time he found particularly obnoxious. The sun beat down on his head, the bright light dazzled him, he kept tripping over lovers in the grass. In exasperation he ate a huge lunch, then a huge tea, followed by high-tea at six. In the hours between seven and ten, spent back in his room, he finally anchored himself into a peaceful state with the help of baked beans and bacon. Strangely, no more smells came from his landlady’s kitchen. He had not seen her about since their little scene, and assumed she was on holiday.
By the time Harry set off in his car, in best suit and imitation silk tie, he felt unusually calm, patient and optimistic. The curtains of Viola’s house were not drawn. There was a dim light on the first floor. Harry slowly mounted the stone steps to the front door. He fingered the small jeweller’s box in his pocket.
To his dismay, he found there was an entryphone: should Viola recognize his voice she might not let him in. He rang, and the Gods were on his side. Amazingly, he heard her voice cheerfully asking him to come up to the drawing-room.
Harry managed to control his instant scorn at the idea of a drawing-room being ‘up’ in any house, and pushed open the door. He stood for a moment accustoming his eyes to the huge, lightless hall, and made his way to the grandest staircase he had ever seen. His heart continued its furious pounding, outraged that any one person should live in a house of this scale. But calmly he put his hand on the polished banister — it gave a solid, comforting support — and felt with his foot for the first stair. The carpet, as far as he could tell, was either thick velvet or pure mink. Bloody mad … But, with admirable control, he began to climb.
When Harry Antlers entered the drawing-room he felt he had walked into a cavernous place full of shadows. There was only one lamp lit, on a low table beside a sofa. Viola sat in the corner of that sofa, a look of wonderful expectancy on her face. But even as he looked, silently, the radiance fled from her and she covered her face with her hands.
Harry strode across the room till he was as far from her as he could be. He turned and contemplated Viola, still hidden behind her hands, shoulders hunched. She appeared to be sobbing. Harry felt a moment’s distress. But this was soon replaced by a stronger feeling of discomfort, prickling over his entire skin, that came from the scale of the room, the huge pictures, the ornate looking-glass over the marble fireplace. He said nothing, waiting.
‘How could you have found me this time?’ Viola cried. She looked at him through cracks in her fingers.
‘I’m sorry if I’ve caught you at a bad time. Once again. I’ve come to apologize for my untoward behaviour in Norfolk.’ Harry smiled.
Viola let her hands drop from her face. Her eyes were narrowed. There were no visible tears.
‘I don’t want an apology, or anything else from you,’ she said. ‘I’d just like you to go. Please. I was quite happy until you came.’
‘Then I’m sorry about that. Perhaps I could try to restore your happiness before I go?’
Viola watched him take a few steps forward, pat the chestnut velvet seat of a sofa opposite her own.
‘Would it be permissible,’ Harry asked, ‘for a humble man like me to sit on this wonderful sofa?’ He did not smile.
‘Of course,’ snapped Viola, irritated by such absurd but serious humility. ‘Sit where you like.’
That fact that she did not give him a second order to leave gave Harry courage. He sat down, made so bold as to lean back among the alien cushions, ill-shapen legs stretched out before him. He felt the small box in his pocket. It had been his intention to sit near Viola, make her shut her eyes as in a childish game, and press it into her hands. But now he saw any such move would be unwise. Her resistance seemed to be melting a little, perhaps in response to his soft voice, though her expression was not inviting. He pulled the box from the pocket and threw it across the room to Viola, surprising himself by his unpremeditated action. It landed beside her. She ducked in fear. Then she picked it up.
‘What’s this?’
‘Just a beginning.’
Viola opened the box. She took out the diamond star.
‘Very pretty,’ she said. ‘I love Victorian jewellery.’
‘It’s yours,’ said Harry.
‘It most certainly isn’t,’ Viola retorted. ‘You must have a very wrong impression of me if you think I’m the kind of girl who would accept jewellery from men.’ She knew she sounded pompous.
‘From one who loves you. Surely that’s different,’ said Harry.
‘Not at all.’ Viola was brusque. She returned the star to its box. ‘It was a kind thought, but I don’t want it. I wouldn’t dream of accepting it. Please take it away.’
She placed the box some distance from her. Harry did not move, watching her. They listened to the tick of the gilded clock above the fireplace.
At last Harry shifted. He sat up, arms resting on knees, hands clasped as if in prayer. He was further encouraged by Viola not having thrown the box back at him. For the first time, with her, he felt in control. Instinctively he longed to make some extravagant gesture, throw himself on the floor at her feet, babble all the things that had been pent up in him so long concerning his love. But he knew any such action would be fatal, undoing all the good achieved so far this evening. What he would do, he thought, the resolution grim in his heart, would be to go very soon, as she requested. Show how reasonable he could be. But first he must put to her just one or two things.
‘What you must understand, my beautiful lady, is that I’m a bit of a nutter, but I respond well when I’m treated well, as you can see. I’m not tearing up the carpets tonight, am I? I’m not throwing things about. I can be quite civilized, you know.’ He smiled the charming smile that had endeared him to Hannah Bagle. ‘I’m sorry, as I said, for my tantrums the other night, for bullying you over the telephone. But my lovely Viola, you can’t know what it’s like, this passion I feel for you. It’s almost killing me.’ He gave a small, self-deprecating laugh. ‘Your face is constantly in my mind, your voice in my ears. I can’t think about anything else, don’t care about anything else. You can’t begin to conceive of the torment.’
‘No,’ said Viola.
Hard little bitch, thought Harry, clasping his hands more tightly, but I’ll keep on smiling.
‘Look, I’m only asking one thing of you — it’s not much. But give me a break. Have a bit of sympathy. Try to understand. And I for my part will try to act more reasonably. I won’t pester you further, I promise. But in return, just out of human kindness, I’d much appreciate it …’ His voice seemed to be near to breaking. ‘ … if you’d let me visit you from time to time. Just to talk to you for a few moments. Like that, I can take new pictures of you away with me in my mind.’
He smiled again, stood up. The sag of his shoulders, the swell of his stomach, the tugging at his belt with ugly hands all conveyed his wretchedness. He was aware of this, looked to Viola for some reaction. And, wondrously, he detected some very slight interest in her eyes. Things were going better than he could have hoped for. He waited, but still Viola said nothing.
‘Well, I must be going,’ he said. ‘I won’t be bothering you for some time as I shall be away in Sweden, working. So that will keep me occupied while you’re in Norfolk —’
‘How do you know I’m going to —’
Viola leapt up, fiery, beautiful, so close to Harry he felt quite weak. He put out a hand, indicating she should come no closer. ‘Calm down, calm down. I haven’t been spying, I promise you that. Just keeping in touch. Any word of you makes the agony a little more bearable, you must see that. And I warned you: passion is a great spur to discovery. But I shan’t be pursuing you to Norfolk again, have no fear. I shall wait till you get back.’
For all his gentleness, it sounded like a threat. Viola fell back on to the sofa, uttered a cry of fury curdled with fear. Harry knew he must leave at once. He went quickly to the door.
‘Take your brooch,’ hissed Viola.
Not answering, Harry hurried from the room and down the thick stairs. Much had been achieved tonight. Perhaps he should not have mentioned Norfolk, but that was the only mistake he had made. One thing was quite definite: despite her shouts from upstairs about taking back the brooch, he had established himself as a new and intriguing man in Viola Windrush’s mind. Of that he was quite sure. He banged the huge front door behind him, wishing it would shake the whole bloody palace of a house to its foundations. Pity he had forgotten to ask Viola how she felt about living in such a ridiculous place on her own, when ten homeless families could easily be housed there. But there was plenty of time. In his new position of strength, patience would surely come to him.
For all the success of the evening, by the time he reached his room Harry Antlers was shaking. He made himself a cup of tea to accompany a cheese sandwich, then took to his chair to review the evening, in film director’s language, frame by frame. Viola’s face, palpably beautiful, struck blindingly in his mind’s eye, so that even though reason said she was a stupid, resistant, spoiled cow, he could not believe this. She was in fact as near perfect as you could find on this mean earth — and one day she would be his.
Lulled by the cheese, Harry had just turned his thoughts to the future penthouse for his loved one when the front door bell rang. He rose with some silly hope that Viola had followed him: her heart had turned, and here she was, offering herself to him in her entirety.
Harry opened the front door. A slight girl stood before him, blonde hair falling out of a scarf. Scarcely visible with her back to the glow of street lights, Harry’s heart surged for a moment, believing his fantasy had come true. The illusion was broken as soon as she spoke.
‘I’m Annie Light,’ she said. ‘Miss Whittle’s great-niece. My mum sent me over with a message for you.’
Harry paused. Disappointment gathered in his stomach. He felt a sudden longing to talk to someone. Perhaps this stranger would do.
‘Come in,’ he said.
The girl followed him upstairs. Unasked, she took off her coat and scarf, laid them on a chair. She was as small as Viola, scared.
‘Do sit down,’ said Harry.
‘I’m all right standing if you don’t mind.’
‘Shall I get you a cup of tea?’
‘No thanks.’
‘What’s the message, then?’
Annie looked up at him, dull-eyed. She had too large a gap between her front teeth, but was quite pretty.
‘It’s my auntie — well, my great-aunt Marjorie,’ she said, looking down. ‘She’s dead.’
‘Oh?’ said Harry.
‘Yes. Dead. Few nights ago she arrives to see her sister, my grandmother, like, in a terrible state, with the cat. She didn’t seem to be making any sense. Next thing: heart attack. They got her to hospital straight away. But she was dead on arrival. Just like that.’
‘I am sorry,’ said Harry. ‘Very sudden.’
‘Very sudden, yes,’ said the girl. She paused for a moment, making some effort to remember. ‘My mum said I had to tell you two things. She said great-aunt Marjorie’s solicitor would be on to you soon about the rent and that, and selling up this place.’
‘Quite,’ said Harry.
‘And then she said would I ask you if you knew if there was anything on my great-aunt’s mind?’
‘I’m afraid not. We very rarely spoke to each other. We had almost no communication.’
‘Yes, well, she didn’t speak to anyone much. She was that quiet. So it was unlike her to come round to me grandmother in such a dither. Something must have happened to upset her, that’s what we thought. It’s terrible, somehow, not knowing.’
‘Well, I’m sorry I can’t help,’ said Harry.
‘It, like, haunts us all,’ said Annie.
Harry stared at the pitiful sight of her, forlorn shoulders and scrunched-up hands. He cared not at all about the demise of his churlish landlady, and slammed down the small voice of conscience that accused him of possibly contributing to her death. But the sight of Annie served to inflame his feelings of self-pity: the unfairness of things in his life surged through him. He longed to weep on a shoulder — any shoulder. So when Annie then said, with a sniff:
‘She was such a lonely thing, my old auntie, all her life,’ Harry could contain himself no longer.
‘We all are, we all are,’ he whispered. ‘We’re all despairing, lonely creatures. What can we do?’
Annie, alarmed by the urgency in his voice, looked up.
‘I don’t know,’ she said, sounding stupid.
‘Comfort: comfort is all we ask of each other. And yet, where do we find it?’
Annie took a step back from him, by now much alarmed by the look in his eye.
‘I must be going,’ she said.
‘Stay one moment.’
Before she knew what was happening, Annie was clutched in Harry’s arms, crushed to his awkward body, listening to unintelligible murmurings as he nuzzled his mouth through her hair. He seemed to be strangely upset. But Annie, still frightened, felt a sudden pity for this stranger. The comfort he had spoken of seemed, magically, to be running through her.
For his part, Annie surprisingly in his arms, Harry sensed no relief: rather, her compliance only made it worse that she was not Viola. He kept his eyes shut, a picture of the girl who was not there in his mind. Fired by the beauty of this imaginative picture, he crushed the real girl more desperately, kissed her hard on the mouth, pushing back her head. He only had to start undoing her clothes, whisper a suggestion, and she would be his.
But, as suddenly as his desire had come, it left. Harry pushed Annie away from him, drained, disgusted. He saw that her mouth was red and bruised, and blood threatened a small cut on her lip. Her mascara had run, her dyed hair had fallen into dark partings. He wanted to be rid of her as fast as possible.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you downstairs.’
‘That’s all right.’ The girl sniffed again, pulled on her coat. ‘It’s been a funny sort of day all round, matter of fact.’
Harry hurried her out of the house. She waved goodbye, friendly, saying that she’d drop by again one day to see how he was getting on. Harry considered this proposal nothing less than a threat. He must hurry to find new accommodation: he wanted no more Annies in his life, pestering him with stupid letters and declaring their unwanted love.
Viola had been so completely absorbed in the sudden thought of Edwin’s return that when, in reality, he had been substituted by Harry Antlers, she had found it impossible to grasp the reality of the situation. Thus, while one half of her slipped into the old fear and anger that Harry always engendered, the other half was locked in contemplation of what might have been. As a result, she had no spare energy to chastise Harry and order him from the house. Anything to avoid a scene, she had acted in pathetically mild fashion, no doubt giving Harry reason to feel encouragement.
Most of the rest of the night was spent cursing herself for her own feeble reaction to Harry’s violating her privacy once again. His sickening humility disgusted her as much as his violence, but she knew that if he now redoubled his efforts she had only herself to blame. She should have thrown the diamond brooch after him into the street. She should have … Wearily, Viola got up late next morning.
All the calm contentment of the last few days seemed to have disappeared. Those twin destroyers of a peaceful mind, rage and fear, agitated her limbs, making her restless. In no mood to continue painting, she could only think that a short talk to Hardley There, intimating, in the lightest way, some of her troubles, might be of comfort. She knew he would welcome an interruption from his moths.
But Edwin, Viola could see at once, when she met him on the stairs, was in no mood for other people’s problems. Rather it was he who needed soothing. His blanched skin and unshaven jaw told of a night as sleepless as Viola’s own.
‘You’ll never believe it,’ he wailed, ‘but I found one on the front steps when I got home.’
For a moment, with her slow morning reaction, Viola misunderstood him. ‘A moth!’ she asked.
‘A woman. Imagine! Eleven at night. Waiting for me for hours, apparently. Howling.’ He wrung his hands, moaning again. For the first time since she had woken, Viola felt like smiling. But she controlled herself.
‘Did you invite her in?’
‘Oh, well, yes. I had to, didn’t I? She was making such a noise. Any minute the neighbours would have complained.’ The thought of this possibility seemed to cause Edwin further distress. He sat on a stair, head in hands.
‘What was her trouble?’
‘Ah! Gracious me. She kept me up the best part of the night explaining. Apparently, I hadn’t acknowledged some poetry she’d sent me. Well, I mean, obviously I wasn’t encouraging her to send me poetry. God knows what that can lead to. Mind you, she’s rather a good poet, I suppose. But as I keep on telling her, she shouldn’t address the stuff to me. It’s dangerous for married women to write poetry to bachelors. I keep on warning her. But she pays no heed. Reams of the stuff pours out, gets pushed through my front door. What can I do? She leaves copies all over her house, I gather. Very careless. It’s only a matter of time till her husband finds out. Then what? I’ll be unwillingly involved in some terrible scandal. Cited, or whatever. But how can I get rid of her? Every time I shut the door in her face her fixation only increases. Oh Lord, honestly …’
‘But you must have done something to encourage her,’ suggested Viola, intrigued. She sat on the stair above Edwin.
‘Not really. We met at an AGM of the Hampstead Moth Society. We’re in the same world, you see. Her husband writes for a scientific magazine — very well, as a matter of fact. Our paths cross officially. Too damn often for my liking. She said she had a lot of questions to ask me on some paper I’d written. I asked her out to lunch, thinking it would be a purely professional date. Not her intention at all, of course. Well, somehow, several more lunches happened.’
‘Long lunches?’
‘They did somehow stray into the afternoon, I’m bound to admit. But I made it quite clear that for my part there was no possibility of things developing. But she heeded not a word. And now she’s gone completely off the rails, threatening to leave her husband and children, give up her entire life to me. I don’t want any part of her life, let alone its entirety. Oh, dearie me, married women are terrible, terrible pests …’
Viola, feeling a little foolish, patted his shoulder.
‘You are a kind girl,’ Edwin went on. ‘In fact, this house is my only refuge. I was wondering if staying here a few nights might not be the solution? Then she couldn’t possibly trap me again. She’s no idea of the address.’
‘I’m sure my uncle wouldn’t mind,’ said Viola. ‘Why don’t you stay for a week? You could go in the dressing-room. I won’t be in your way because I’m going home for a while to be with my brother who’s coming over from America.’
‘Oh?’
It was hard to tell whether Edwin was disappointed by the news of her departure. But by now his feelings for her were of little consequence to Viola. Last night had been a one-night flight of fantasy, dead this morning. Edwin Hardley was a friendly, rather pathetic creature, driven by a complex web of insecurities that Viola felt no desire to untangle.
He moved into the dressing-room that night, and was there for the two remaining nights before Viola left for Norfolk. But she scarcely saw him. There were no more suggestions of dinner. From what Viola could gather, from their brief meetings on the stairs, the unhappy poetess was not the only lady in pursuit of his reluctant love. He crept about with a hunted look, indicating, with the merest droop of his weary eye, that he suffered from being the most wanted man in London.
Alfred Baxter, alone in the house in Norfolk, established a routine of work as hard as it had been in the days before his retirement. His self-imposed hours were long: eight in the morning till eight at night, with only short breaks for lunch and an afternoon cup of tea. The rewards were the results. Within a week the lawns were all mown, the borders weeded, climbing roses pinned back against walls, gravel drive swept smooth. Up on the roof two builders — men he had known as boys — replaced slate tiles, and waved to him from their ladders. So he felt there was company, should he want it. But on the whole he was too preoccupied with his work to require anything more than the occasional greeting. He had never been a gregarious man, and was not lonely.
No: he was definitely not lonely. But strange sensations, which he could not account for when he forced himself to think about them, made him uneasy. It was something to do with getting himself settled — that was it. Not so much in a physical way: that was all taken care of nicely, his rooms all shipshape and tidy, only the kitchen to paint. It was more a matter of settling his mind.
In detached fashion, Alfred regarded his problem — if so unidentifiable a thing could be called a problem, that is — as very peculiar. Here he was, in the perfect job at last, lovely house and surroundings, part of the coast he had known all his life, time usefully occupied, great respect for his employer Miss Windrush — and yet at times he found himself shaking, physically shaking. It was fine during the day, outside. But the evenings Alfred dreaded. Forced to give up his gardening by the dark, he would reluctantly go into his kitchen, fiddle about getting himself a pork pie and a piece of cheese, and eventually go to his chair in the sitting-room. Very comfortable it was, too, at the end of a long day. Good support to aching limbs. Nothing to grumble about in the view out of the windows, either. The limes, their shapes by now familiar, scarcely moving in the still summer nights, moonlight on their leaves. Alfred would sit in the dark, so that insects would not fly in to the light and annoy him, and Eileen would start up her tricks.
Trouble was, once her face began bobbing about he couldn’t get rid of it. It didn’t obliterate his view, exactly, but behaved like a transparent yo-yo, up and down, up and down, the solid things of the room showing through. Sometimes Alfred would smack his brow, crying out loud in protest, and shut his eyes tightly. But that was no good. The face merely danced in blackness, alone, decapitated.
Even worse — the thing that caused Alfred to shake — was that although he knew the vision was Eileen, the face was not as he remembered it in life. It was a decidedly nasty face, pinched, mean, unfriendly. The real face, the good and smiling Eileen he knew and loved, would not return.
Eileen did not haunt him on her own. Some nights, when he returned to the sitting-room particularly late, she was joined by the girls. He had no visions of them, but could hear voices, laughter — all of them laughing, not just Lily, now. One particular night, summer lightning playing in the sky outside, lighting up the limes so that they looked like giant silver birds with their feathers all a-ruffle, he heard them singing. A mocking sort of song, it sounded, though Alfred could not make out the words. Alarmed by the strength of the hallucinations, he stood up and went to the open window, just as the church clock boomed a melancholy midnight. Alfred could not bear the sound. He slammed the window shut and ran from the room. He went through the door to the kitchen of the main house, sat at the table and threw his arms across the massive planks of pine. He lay his head on the wood, smelt the beeswax polish. Here, thank the Lord, there was complete silence. Not a voice to be heard, his wife’s face vanished.
In time, Alfred grew calm. He raised his head, reason prevailing again. He had had one of his funny turns, that was all. Well, he should be grateful that was all he suffered. Physically, he was sound as they come, full of strength and energy for his years. But old men, he remembered, do sometimes have funny turns. Nothing serious. And if he had another one, well, he’d know what to do next time. Come in here straight away. The peace of the Windrush kitchen was something very strong. It acted like magic. It took away his fears.
Quite recovered, Alfred switched on the lamp on the dresser and looked gratefully round the room which had soothed him. It was then he remembered that Miss Windrush and her brother were expected in two days’ time: two days. Alfred’s look turned from gratitude to severe criticism. Why, with all the work outdoors he had not even begun on the house.
He glanced at the clock: almost one o’clock. Well, no time like … Besides, he didn’t really fancy returning to his own quarters, yet. Alfred eagerly took cloths and brushes from the cupboard. He gathered dusty china plates, untouched for months, from the shelves: he washed, replaced, swept, polished, scrubbed and tidied all through the visionless night. For once, the swift dark hours had been a happy time.