Why hadn’t she thought of the sewing machine?
Becky’s rug was finished and spread on the floor, ready to be lined with the heavy cotton folded beside it, but her portable electric sewing machine was still in the little room Sophie had used as a study.
She could have asked Sophie to fetch it. Sophie would have thought her the more sensible for the request. Now she could not ask any of them to go back. She knew she had been asking too much of them. David and Martha had certainly reached the limit of their patience, though they tried to conceal what Martha would call their negative feelings, and she would not involve Sophie any further in the situation which had made such a sad change in her. Enough harm had been done.
All she had to do was drive up to the house, unlock the back door, walk past William’s room to the study, pick up the machine and walk out. That was hardly even entering the house. She was within her rights: the month’s grace wasn’t up. She could ignore anyone who came to question her – very bad manners, but manners no longer applied.
It hasn’t happened for a week. If it happens, I know how to control it. I have the better of it.
The house looked empty, every door and window shut. She drove in level with the kitchen door, for easy loading, since the machine was heavy. The room which had been David’s, then Sophie’s, then William’s, then her own, was bare now, stripped of furniture. The room next door was undisturbed. The sewing machine was there, on the floor beside the bookcase. She bent to pick it up, then straightened.
She had remembered what Sophie had said about the rose rug, words which had been moving when she spoke them. How seriously had they been meant? Had Sophie remembered them and taken the rose rug?
She went to look for it in the living room.
The thing was waiting in the living room, where that creature’s acquisitive glance had drifted and darted like a poisonous, transparent sea creature. It was drifting there still; it touched the clock.
A glorious, liberating surge of feeling lifted her, made her tall and powerful. She went into the kitchen, took the heavy meat mallet out of its drawer and carried it back to the living room, where she set the clock on the carpet and joyfully beat it to death. It died with a small, plangent sound which caused her great satisfaction. Then she turned to the pictures, swinging the mallet lustily to shatter the glass in each one.
The glass in the upper doors of the old cedar corner cabinet split with a delightful cracking sound. She opened them and surveyed the rows of wineglasses. The Stuart crystal had been a wedding present. The memory of the wedding renewed her strength, which had been flagging, vandalism being unexpectedly strenuous. She put the claret glasses on the floor and began to batter them. The carpet was frustrating her efforts. She placed them one by one on the heavy, low coffee table and set about them. The effect on the coffee table was more than she could have hoped.
Her strength was gone, now.
Hastily, she emptied the shelves, made a pile of the fragile glasses and tipped the coffee table over to crush the pile. That worked well.
She sat down, panting, conscious of a trickle of moisture between her legs and of a post-coital langour.
Then the panic began. She advanced from glorious irresponsible infancy to five-year-old terror as she began to think of consequences and wonder how to escape them.
It would have to be a break in. She would have to fake a break in.
There had been a break in once. The thieves had made a hole in a kitchen window to reach the latch. She must be careful not to cut herself – a cut hand would be a giveaway. One of the intruders had cut himself – she remembered how nauseating had been the sight of blood drops clotted on the windowsill. She didn’t have to reach through, groping for a latch, just make a hole with a stone from the garden as they had done, then come in again through the door. No use thinking how tired she was. It had to be done.
This was like being in one of Rob’s films, making it up and acting it as she went.
She found a heavy stone in the grassed slope behind the cultivated garden – what luck she had brought the car to the door, out of sight of the road. The sewing machine. Remember the sewing machine. She fetched it and hid it in the boot of the car. She attacked the kitchen window with the stone. The glass was too tough. The job was beyond her strength.
She was exposed to view from the house at the foot of the slope. With a giggle she told herself that Meg would be up in a minute, offering to help. The giggle frightened her.
Stop wasting time. It didn’t have to be the kitchen window. The living room window was sheltered from view by the rockery and the upward slope to the road. She fetched the small hatchet from the garden shed and attacked the living room window, where she made better progress, though the hole was larger and not as neat as the one the thieves had made. Everything took practice. They were professionals, after all.
Should she put the hatchet back? No, leave it there. Wipe the handle, wipe the handle.
Indoors again, she sat looking blankly at the disorder. Hurry, for God’s sake. Other people had keys. If anyone surprised her – she had just walked in and discovered the damage. Vandalism. Shocking. How can people do such things?
Don’t start giggling again.
Money. There wasn’t any. Yes, the housekeeping purse in the kitchen drawer – they’d have found that.
Don’t go running backwards and forwards to the kitchen. Think. Liquor behind the solid cedar doors of the corner cupboard – they’d steal liquor. She opened the cupboard, found, besides the open bottles of whisky and gin – she took the time to empty those onto the heap of ruin – a full bottle of whisky, one of brandy and one of Tia Maria – leave that one. Not sufficiently anonymous. Thieves wouldn’t care for Tia Maria.
Now to the kitchen for the housekeeping purse – her own handbag, where was that? On the floor of the study – fetch it first. The housekeeping purse and a bag for the bottles.
She emptied the money from the purse into her handbag, dropped the purse, open, in the doorway to the living room – a good touch, that, put the liquor into a plastic bag and looked around her.
Inadequate. Unconvincing.
What else did thieves do?
No, she couldn’t quite come at that.
Graffiti. That’s what they did. They wrote on walls. A nice finishing touch which would wreck the striped Regency wallpaper. Great.
Back to the kitchen. She fetched the marker pen from the memo board and came back to set about the task.
Now this was danger. What would she do if she was interrupted? Thrust the pen down the front of her dress? No. Drop it on the carpet.
As soon as she had printed the first FUCK, in bold letters with her left hand – she knew she was in deep water. She didn’t have the necessary vocabulary. The only other dirty word she knew was SHIT; one couldn’t fill these empty spaces – she hadn’t realised how much empty space there was – with repetitions of FUCK and SHIT. She printed SHIT beside the cabinet. The word looked absurdly small and lonely. She had only made things worse, FUCKING BASTARDS. That was better. That filled a space. What now? Why hadn’t she listened more, read more modern fiction? For the first time, she was seriously unhappy, wretched and disgusted. She had gone beyond other limits than those of vocabulary. In the large vacant space to the left of the door, she printed FILTHY GOBSUCKERS, dropped the pen, picked it up to wipe it and dropped it again.
She looked about the room. The window was shut. She had forgotten to open the window. What a giveaway that would have been. She raised it with a frantic jerking effort, picked up the plastic bag with the liquor, fetched her handbag from the kitchen and fled, letting the back door slam shut behind her.
Why wasn’t the key in the ignition? Of course, it was on the ring with the house keys. She had had to unlock the back door, hadn’t she?
Where were the keys? Had she automatically put them back in her handbag, or had she left them somewhere in the house? She could not remember. She did not dare to open her handbag for fear of learning the worst.
Everything would not be lost. There was another key taped under the car. She would have to ring Caroline and tell a tale. Well, you’d better get used to telling tales.
I came to fetch the machine, saw the damage and was so upset that I … she opened the handbag. The keys were there.
Her annoyance with herself over this unnecessary piece of drama was helpful. She sat behind the wheel recovering her composure, telling herself she was safe now, that if anyone came, the discovery story would stand. Of course, there was the small matter of the bottles of liquor in the plastic bag on the seat beside her. Criminals needed an eye for detail. She got out and hid them in the boot.
Experienced now in driving in a state of strong emotion, she started the car and drove safely to the lodging house and into the garage.
Once indoors, she looked about the room with joy and relief.
Sanctuary. Home.