Part Four

1

Hendricks crosses to the chair and retrieves his sweater. The light now has almost gone; patches of sweat have stained his shirt; the whiteness of his shorts is blemished, stained by the ash of the court itself. His face seems grey; his eyes, from across the court, are invisible in shadow.

I say,

‘Do you fancy another set?’

‘Too dark, old man.’

‘You played super, Mr Freestone,’ Rebecca says.

She’s arrived with the combat-jacketed youth, plus his dog, at the beginning of the game, standing at the net, calling the score, instructing Hendricks, if not myself – ‘Oh, super shot, Mr Freestone,’ – to such an extent that Hendricks, finally, in a rage, has lost a set.

The youth, now, has gone some distance off, calling to the dog. He’s shown little interest in the game, digging his heels against the ash: but for Rebecca, and the prospect, perhaps, of watching Hendricks, he might have wandered off.

‘One set each, Mr Hendricks,’ Rebecca says.

Hendricks nods; he tucks a silk scarf inside his sweater.

‘Fancy a drink, old man?’ I ask.

‘I’ve got to get off,’ he says. ‘I’m late already.’ He examines his watch, stooping vaguely to the evening light.

The odd man from the hut is standing on the path outside the courts.

‘Which way are you going, Mr Freestone?’ Rebecca says. She’s dressed in jeans, with a silk blouse and leather jacket. The blouse, unbuttoned, reveals, virtually, the full measure of her chest.

‘I wasn’t going anywhere,’ I tell her.

‘We were going for a drink,’ she says. ‘Mathews and myself.’

She indicates the youth who’s throwing twigs now for the dog to fetch.

‘That’s very kind.’

‘Phil,’ she says. She waves to the youth who gets hold of the dog by its collar and comes across.

‘Mr Freestone’s coming for a drink.’

‘I thought you had to get home,’ he says.

‘I’ve time for a drink, at least,’ she says.

Hendricks, his tennis balls already in his string bag, has gone over to the gate.

He’s limping slightly; one side of his leg is grazed. On the path outside he stoops to his racket, examining the strings; he tightens the screws on the metal press.

‘I’d better say goodnight.’

‘Deciding set tomorrow.’

‘I’d better let this heal.’ He indicates his leg.

‘See you at college.’

He doesn’t answer. He fastens the string bag to the handle of his racket.

‘They’ll be closing these next week.’

The old man comes over to the gate. He fastens the lock in a metal bracket.

Hendricks is limping off beneath the whale-bone arch.

‘Goodnight, old man.’

‘Goodnight.’

He waves. As he nears his car he begins to run.

‘Where can we go?’ Rebecca says.

‘There’s a pub outside the gates,’ the youth has said.

‘I’ll take the car through,’ she says, and adds to me, ‘You can walk with Phil.’

The dog starts after her as she runs ahead.

Mathews calls it. I tuck in the collar of my shirt and start off with the youth towards the gates.

‘Do you play tennis much?’

I shake my head.

‘Apollo had an evening.’

‘I suppose he had.’

‘Last year he had a racket with a metal shaft. It was split into three, you see, like that.’ He takes my racket. ‘He left it on a bench one day and somebody soaked the neck of it in acid.’ He gives it back. ‘When he went to play the head fell off.’ He begins to laugh. ‘Here, boy! Here, boy!’ he calls as we reach the gate.

The lights have gone on in the pub across the road.

Hendricks’s car sweeps past, brakes as it turns to the road, then disappears quickly towards the town.

The red shooting-brake follows it a moment later. It parks in the yard at the side of the pub.

The building, in design, resembles a country mansion; casement windows are set in wood and plaster surrounds; a lantern burns inside a timbered porch; upturned barrels are set out as tables along one side of the cobbled yard.

Rebecca gets out from the car and comes across.

‘I’ve no money on me,’ Mathews says.

‘I’ve some,’ she says. ‘You needn’t worry.’

‘We’d better sit outside.’ He indicates the dog.

‘Do you fancy a beer?’ she says. ‘Or something short.’

‘I’ll have a beer.’ He beckons to the dog.

‘I’ll get them,’ I tell her. I go inside.

When I come back out Mathews is sitting with his arm around her; he takes it away as I reach the table. I set down the tray and take a seat.

‘Apollo, I bet, was pretty mad. Have you beaten him before?’ Rebecca says.

‘Once or twice.’

‘You could give me a game, if you like,’ she says. She looks to Mathews. ‘I’m pretty good.’

‘I bet,’ he says, and takes his glass.

Rebecca takes hers.

‘Here’s to it, then,’ she says.

There are one or two other groups sitting at the tables; the dog, released by Mathews, has wandered off across the yard.

‘We thought it was you from the top of the hill. It’s something to do with your arms,’ she says. ‘You were hitting the ball in a kind of dream. It’s the look you have at the school,’ she adds.

‘Like what?’

‘Like you’re not really there, I suppose,’ she says.

She looks to Mathews.

‘What did you do before you came up here?’ he says.

‘Very little, on the whole,’ I tell him.

‘I gather you were a fighter for a while,’ he says.

‘For a while,’ I tell him. ‘Then I turned to art.’

‘Representational, I suppose,’ he says.

‘Realist might be more appropriate,’ I say.

‘Realist!’ he says. He begins to laugh.

Rebecca gets up; she calls the dog. Suddenly, it seems, she’s grown impatient.

A man at an adjoining table, reading a newspaper, has looked across. The paper, from the headlines, is two days old.

‘Art no longer exists. Only parodies, of course,’ I tell him, ‘and self-reflection.’

‘It seems our time’s being wasted, then,’ he says.

‘That’s for you to decide, old man,’ I say.

‘We’d better be going, I think,’ he says.

On the breast pocket of his jacket is a badge which says, ‘I am your friend’.

‘We’ll drop Mr Freestone off,’ Rebecca says. ‘Do you fancy another drink?’

I shake my head.

‘Thanks for the one we had, Mr Freestone,’ Mathews says.

We cross to the car. The man with the newspaper, a flat cap pulled down above his eyes, has glanced across.

‘I’ll walk back to town,’ I say.

‘I can easily take you back,’ she tells me.

‘I’d prefer to walk,’ I tell her. ‘I invariably do after playing tennis.’

‘Some shady assignation, I suppose,’ she says.

‘That’s right.’

She glances now to the man himself.

‘Are you sure about the lift?’ she says.

‘I’d much prefer to walk than ride.’

She gets in the car; Mathews gets in the other side.

The dog gives a howl as the engine starts.

As she turns the car it collides with a barrel.

She glances out; an arm is waved.

‘Nothing serious,’ she says, and waves again.

The car turns in the road outside; to a vague revving of the engine it disappears.

The man with the newspaper has crossed the yard; having glanced down the road he taps the paper against his hand, reassures himself of the car’s direction, then, with something of a gesture, follows me.

The door to the ground floor flat is suddenly opened. The man with the red moustache appears.

‘Could I have a word?’ he says. He glances past me to the door of the house itself. ‘It won’t take a minute.’ He winks. ‘If you could slip inside.’

He’s wearing a light blue suit; he looks, for that moment, like some comedian in a thirties’ farce; the red hair, the red moustache, the slightly reddened nose to match.

I step inside.

His room is furnished with elaborate care; it corresponds to the old drawing-room of the family house: there’s a three-piece suite, a table that reminds me, by its age, of the one in Wilcox’s dining-room, and above the marble fireplace hangs a diamond-shaped mirror in a wrought-iron frame. A pair of sliding-doors cuts off the view to the bedroom at the back.

‘Fancy a snitch?’

He holds up a bottle as well as a glass.

‘Damn cold these evenings: closing in.’

He sees the racket.

‘Been playing tennis, sport?’

‘That’s right.’

‘One of my games.’ He indicates, in addition to a racket, a set of golf clubs propped up in a stand against the wall. ‘Badminton. Squash. Might play you one evening, if you’ve got the time. The local technical college has a damn good court.’

He indicates a chair in front of the fire.

He waits while I sit. ‘Hoping to catch you, you know, last night.’

He holds out the glass.

‘Damn difficult at times in a house like this.’

He drains his own glass at a single throw, the head tossed back, the eyes half-closed.

He gives a gasp.

‘Fancy another?’

I hold mine up.

‘Good hunting, sport.’

He’s been through several ‘snitches’ it seems already.

There’s a line of sweat across his brow.

‘Living alone?’

I nod my head.

‘Same here. Only been in a couple of months.’

He takes out a cigarette case from his jacket pocket.

I offer him one of mine.

‘That’s very decent. Been trying to give them up, you know.’

He takes the light, puffs out for a while, then settles back.

‘Keep in trim. Our age, you know, it becomes essential.’

He’s nearly fifty; lines fan out from the corners of his eyes. His teeth are white, browning, however, around the edges: one or two at the back are missing. His nails are long, and neatly trimmed.

‘Hear you were something of a sport yourself.’

He indicates several photographs hanging by the mirror; there’s a red-haired figure in tennis shorts standing by a net; another red-haired figure, somewhat older, stands with an oar beside a boat. Another, its arms folded, poses smilingly beside a hurdle; another stands posed, a javelin in its hand, beside a wooden fence.

‘Not so long ago, by all accounts.’

His eyes have grown a little brighter.

‘There’s a poster in one of the pubs in town. I noticed it,’ he says, ‘the other night. Freestone versus Corcoran. I saw him fight, you know, in London. Gave one of these American light-heavies a damn bad time.’

He swallows his drink.

‘Beat him?’

‘I’ll have to look it up.’

He laughs.

‘Can always tell a sport.’ He taps his head. ‘Doesn’t talk about it: goes and does it. Not many of us left.’

He reaches to the bottle: perhaps my presence is all the licence he requires. He holds it out: I shake my head.

‘In the same line of business still?’

‘Teaching,’ I tell him.

‘A teacher?’ he says.

He puckers his lip.

‘Damn nice if you can get it, pal.’

He’s had some experience of this, perhaps, himself. He swallows his drink.

‘What was the word you wanted to have?’

He runs his stiffened forefinger along either side of the red moustache. For a moment, it seems, he might take it off, reveal some different character entirely.

‘It’s none of my concern, old man. And far be it from me to interfere.’ He narrows his eyes. ‘Just shoot me down if you think I’m wrong. But did you know,’ he says, ‘you were being watched?’

‘Where?’

‘In the house, old man. The flat.’ He gestures up. ‘And I’ve a damned good idea,’ he says, ‘in the street as well.’

‘I’m being followed?’

‘It’s no concern of mine, old man.’ He looks at his glass. ‘I thought I’d mention it. Just in case.’

‘It’s very good of you,’ I say.

He looks across.

‘These H.P. people get up to all sorts of tricks. You don’t have to tell me, old man. I know.’

He sips at the glass which, from where I’m sitting, appears to be empty.

‘He’s out here, I can tell you, every night. And I’ve seen him a time or two,’ he says, ‘during the day as well.’

‘How’s he dressed?’

‘A trilby hat, old man. You can tell them at a glance.’

‘A belted raincoat.’

‘That’s the one.’

He seems quite pleased. He nods across.

‘Thought it was me, at first, old man.’ He taps his chest. ‘Not that there’s anything at present, mind.’

He puffs briskly at the cigarette.

‘Nowadays, you know, you can never tell. They nab you for something before they even tell you they’ve made it an offence.’

‘I know.’

‘I won’t have to tell you, sport,’ he says.

I get up from the chair.

‘Could be the divorce, you know, old man.’ He adds, ‘Of course, it’s no concern of mine.’

‘I don’t think,’ I tell him, ‘it could be that.’

‘It could be someone else’s wife.’

He waits.

‘Wanting a divorce?’

‘Looking for evidence, old man. I’ve had it happen to me, I can tell you that.’

He looks across.

‘Meet some lady – quite charming; go along: make no demands – find she’s after evidence, old man. When it’s far too late you find you’re Mr X. Subpoenaed. I’ve had it happen to me, old man.’

‘She’s providing evidence, you mean.’

‘Protecting the one she really wants. I’ve known it happen, old man. Take my advice.’

His finger travels slowly along the underside of the red moustache.

‘Doesn’t say much for the husband, sport. There’s always collusion in a thing like this. He’s usually too high-powered to provide evidence himself. Result: gets the little lady to do it for him.’

‘I see what you mean.’

‘Just thought I’d mention it, old man.’

He holds up the bottle.

‘Another snitch before you go?’

He pours it out.

‘Once bitten in these things: you get to know. Becomes second instinct, so to speak.’

‘Are you sure it’s me? Not someone else.’

‘Seen the way he watches the place, old man. They’ve no imagination, I can tell you that.’

I finish the drink.

‘And the way he regards your visitors. The lady in the fur hat especially, sport.’

‘I see what you mean.’

‘I’ve seen it happen before, old man. Been the ruin of many a better man than I.’

‘You think I ought to thump him, then?’

‘Assault and battery, old man: get damages as well.’

He taps his eye.

‘What course of action,’ I ask him, ‘do you recommend?’

‘Confrontation, old man. It’s always best.’

‘With the trilby hat, you mean.’

‘With the lady, old man. Take my advice.’

‘Supposing she denies it.’

‘They never do, old man. In too deep. Beg for mercy, and things like that.’

‘The evidence’s already there, you mean.’

‘Precisely, old man.’ He taps his head.

‘I could put her onto you,’ I tell him.

‘Not me, old man.’

He gets up from the chair.

‘I only mentioned it as a favour, sport.’

‘After all, you’ve witnessed it,’ I tell him.

‘Not me, old sport. I’d deny it to anyone else.’ He smiles.

‘I’ll have to fight it on my own.’

‘I was only doing you a favour, sport. I’ve seen it happen before, you see.’

‘So you said.’

‘One sport to another.’

‘I know what you mean.’

I cross over to the door.

‘The difficulties start with the employers, old man. Particularly the professions. They don’t like to see it happen. Not good for the firm, a name in court. Not good for the school.’ He nods his head.

‘It was good of you to mention it,’ I tell him.

‘I wouldn’t see it happen to a dog, old man.’

He holds the door.

‘Let me know when you’re free, and we’ll fix up a date.’ He indicates the racket. ‘Not got the shots I used to have, but I’ll give you a damn good run.’ He laughs. ‘Not a golfing feller, I take it?’

‘I can never find the time.’

‘Know what you mean, old man.’ He winks.

He waits while I reach the turn of the stairs.

‘See you, old man,’ he calls and, looking up to the landing, he gives a wave.

I wave the racket back.

He disappears.

I climb up to the room. The door’s unlocked.

Rebecca’s sitting on the floor inside, smoking, her head against the wall.

Her figure’s lit up by the glow from the landing.

‘Don’t put on the light,’ she says. ‘I’m used to the dark.’ I close the door.

‘I didn’t notice the car,’ I say.

‘I didn’t park it outside,’ she says.

‘And the door wasn’t locked?’

‘I picked it with a pin.’

‘Are you entitled to do that?’

‘It was locked when I came. I got tired of waiting, I suppose,’ she says.

A faint light, reflected from the street lamps below, comes through the window. Her figure, mounded against the wall, has begun to stir.

‘Do you want a drink?’

‘You’ve nothing in.’

‘A cup of tea?’

‘Your milk’s run out.’

‘Have I anything left?’

She shakes her head.

‘You don’t keep house too well,’ she says.

‘Won’t your mother be expecting you?’ I ask.

‘She’s often out,’ she says, ‘herself.’

She indicates the drawing, faintly visible on the wall, above her head.

‘I see you’ve hung it up,’ she says.

‘Did you really pick the lock?’ I say.

‘You do it with a pin. I’ll show you if you like,’ she says.

She gets up from the wall and crosses to the door.

‘I’ll lock it,’ she says. ‘Then I’ll come back in.’

She shuts the door.

There’s the shuffling of her feet on the floor outside; a moment later the lock springs back.

Her head appears, silhouetted briefly against the landing light.

‘Shall I do it again?’

‘I’ll never feel safe in bed again.’

She comes back in.

‘It’s easy with a lock like that. I couldn’t do it with a new one, though.’

She shuts the door.

‘The ones at college are easier still.’

‘You could make a fortune,’ I tell her, ‘with a gift like that.’

‘I’ve already got a fortune, I suppose,’ she says.

‘From what?’

‘From policies. Endowments. Things like that.’

She comes over to the chair.

‘I thought Mr Hendricks was funny tonight.’ She sits down on the arm beside me. ‘I tried to put him off,’ she adds. ‘With all that calling. And then that trouble with Philip’s dog.’

She begins to laugh.

‘He thinks he’s so good. I could beat him stiff.’

‘I could do with you watching every night.’

‘You think so?’

‘I can’t beat him on my own,’ I tell her.

‘He’s so conceited.’

‘That’s half his charm, I suppose,’ I say.

‘Has Leyland been in touch?’ she says.

‘Not yet.’

I wait.

‘You should see his lip. When he came next day he could hardly speak.’

‘It might help him with his friends,’ I say.

‘Mummy was pleased. It made her laugh.’

She pushes her hand against my arm.

‘Did you really hit him hard?’ she says.

‘As hard as I could.’

‘He’ll get his own back.’

‘I suppose he will.’

‘Him and Fraser and Groves,’ she says.

‘They’re a sort of gang.’

‘With Daddy as well, I suppose,’ she says.

‘Will he intervene?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘I’d better watch out.’

‘You could run away.’

‘I suppose I could.’

‘If you had a place outside the town.’

‘They’d never find me there,’ I say.

‘I wouldn’t tell them, honestly,’ she says. ‘You could live out there, and come in each day with the morning-rush.’

‘And go out with the evening-rush at night.’

‘They can’t get you in a crowd,’ she says.

‘I could get up a gang,’ I tell her, ‘myself.’

She shakes her head.

‘They’ve miles more people than you,’ she says. ‘They’d pay them more, in any case,’ she adds.

‘I suppose they would.’

‘When his lip goes down he might forget.’

‘I hope you’re right.’

‘He’d one or two loose teeth, you see, as well. He was going to a dentist the following day.’

‘Once there,’ I tell her, ‘he wouldn’t forget.’

‘Not if he had them out,’ she says.

‘Time I was in bed,’ I say.

‘I suppose I ought to be going, then,’ she says.

She leans her head against my arm.

‘It’s so dark up there at night,’ she says.

‘I thought you liked it. In the house, I mean.’

‘So eerie. All those old houses. There’s supposed to be a ghost in ours. The Blue Lady. I thought I saw her the other night.’

‘Did you see her face?’

‘It was just a haze. She was killed during the Civil War, you know. Her lover was a Roundhead. Her husband,’ she adds, ‘a Cavalier.’

She moves her head.

‘The man who told us said he’d seen her one night when he was lying in bed. Apparently the Roundhead came to see her when her husband was away. He was calling up to the window when her husband suddenly returned. It was late at night. When he saw him there they fought a duel. The lover was killed. When the woman saw what her husband had done she opened the window and threw herself out. She was killed straight away when she hit the ground.’

‘Did the husband relent?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘Which window was it?’

‘He didn’t say.’

‘You better keep your lights on when you drive up there tonight.’

‘Don’t worry,’ she says. ‘I always do.’

She gets up from the chair.

‘You don’t mind me coming up?’ she says.

‘Come up whenever you like,’ I say.

‘There aren’t many people you can talk to here.’ She gestures round. ‘I mean the town.’

‘If you don’t try their locks,’ I tell her, ‘you’ll never find out.’

She begins to laugh.

‘Honestly, you don’t mind me coming in? I could easily have waited outside,’ she says.

‘In future I shall always knock on the door,’ I say.

She goes to the door.

‘And honestly, next time: I’ll bring something up I can cook,’ she says.