SEVEN

HASTINGS—JANUARY

Alice Goodhart stood back from the mirror and patted her fashionable tight brown curls into place. The style didn’t suit her. Not looking her best at all, she decided, as she saw the lines on her face which were deeper than yesterday’s. The eyes which had once sparkled at the Company’s annual Dinner Dance now surmounted sagging, blue-tinted skin. Every day had been an agony. Nevertheless, she remained attractive. Somehow she had remained faithful to Roger throughout the marriage, whilst yearning for a husband with a stronger dynamo. She’d accepted that her husband was too soft in times of hard sell.

After the accident she had cried for him, But now she realised that the tears were for herself. She helped herself to another tranquillizer. The next one would be due at nine-forty-five. She thought of Mr Duncan’s visit. And patted the curls into place. She wondered if he’d still be as attractive as when they’d last met. Precision had long gone but the blurred image of the young solicitor had remained with her.

“What time do you lock up?” asked Duncan.

“Eleven-thirty sharp, Sir.”

“I should be back. Even solicitors try to finish by midnight at weekends.”

“Working, sir?” The voice was incredulous.

“Too right. It’s not all quill pens and bills in guineas, you know.”

“You amaze me! Fancy solicitors working at weekends! I never thought solicitors worked at all—specially at weekends.”

Duncan laughed. “If you’re still working when I get back, I’ll buy you a drink.” He managed the revolving doors more easily this time.

The Goodhart house was three-up and two-down. The windows of the downstairs front room were lit behind curtains and a porch light was on. The ding-dong door dell was answered by an attractive lady of medium height, with a well-kept figure. Dressed in a white trouser suit and a red blouse, she was slightly older than the caller and, with her tiredness masked by make-up, rather appealing.

“It is Mrs Goodhart?” said the visitor confidently.

“David Livingstone? or should I say Scott of the Antarctic?” replied Alice Goodhart. The laugh was nervous, forced and the solicitor recognised it for what it was. The initial bravado gone, Alice Goodhart was a bundle of nerves.

A mauve, violently-patterned carpet made the room seem smaller than it was. Three china ducks on the wall seemed to be making a desperate effort to escape. Over the shoulder the solicitor watched his hostess shakily pour two glasses of sweet sherry from a bottle.

“Here’s to success,” said the solicitor. She nodded and gulped down the “special offer” sherry. “How are the children taking it?” Duncan tried again.

“How do you think? Better than I am, though.” She emphasised her predicament by fluttering her fake eyelashes. Duncan pretended not to notice.

“Roger will be properly trained soon. They say he’s doing rather well at the hospital.” This was something of an exaggeration.

“Yes.” The voice was flat.

“We really must get on, Mrs Goodhart. I’ve a great deal to ask, I’m afraid.” She nodded her head and, for the next hour and a half, they laboured their way through details on the history of the marriage and of the financial situation. More sherries were poured and were consumed almost unnoticed as the solicitor scribbled frantically.

“You’ve been busy,” she purred admiringly, as Duncan told her of the enquiries which he had made already.

“But it’s still not enough. The next thing is that I’m going to France next month to check on the lorry driver and his employers. It’s a real long shot.”

“Did you mean that? Y’know, if we can’t blame someone, Roger won’t be compensated?” she asked.

“I’m afraid that’s the law.”

“It’s bloody savage!” she cried.

“The law may be changed one day but it’ll be too late for Roger, I’m afraid.” The lady’s eyes filled with tears. For the second time in the day Duncan found himself offering his handkerchief. It was refused. She managed a watery smile and drained a fourth glass of sherry.

“Sorry. There’ve been too many tears recently.” Duncan noticed the slurring. He refused her offer of a refill. He’d drunk enough sweet sherry to make every Cypriot a millionaire. She, however, poured herself another glass.

“Let’s drink to success then,” she cried. The word “success” sounded like a hippo rising from deep water. The two drank to it. She looked across at him full face, her intent look meeting his boyish, whimsical gaze as he refilled his briar. It was only the broken nose which added years to his face. It had been a permanent reminder of an unfriendly Welshman in a line-out.

“Success it must be, Mr Duncan. Failure … would be the end. No, don’t look at me like that. I’m not just being dramatic! I’ve been married to failure for so long now. I should have left him.” She stopped, cautiously awaiting some kind of reaction but, with none apparent, she continued. “Roger was a perfectionist. I put up with his perfections for too long.” She reached out for a cigarette. “He even made love from a text book … but he never got beyond page one. Does that sound cruel?”

“Not to me, but I’m not paid to pass judgment. Only you can know whether you’re being cruel or not.” He thought of his conversation with Roger Goodhart.

“I’ve so much time to think now.” She sipped her sherry. “Every night in fact. Now let me bring in the supper.”

“Please don’t bother for me. I really must be going now.”

“No—I insist. It won’t take a moment.” He was captive now. It would be rude for him to refuse but the alternative was hardly palatable. God! No more sherry please.

In the kitchen Alice Goodhart was congratulating herself on the success so far. The tranquillizer, the two stiff gins before the solicitor’s arrival, coupled with all the sherry, had blurred her vision and boosted her ego. She felt flippantly light-headed and delighted when she realised how tipsy she had become. She carelessly slopped sherry into a kitchen tumbler and giggled as she waited for the coffee. It really was happening, she thought. The fantasy hatched, absurdly at first, over the last few nights was taking shape. Alistair Duncan was in her front room and looking, if anything, more attractive with the additional years. It was an opportunity not to be missed. He’d appreciate the flowered bra and bikini panties, newly bought that morning. She took another tranquillizer, ignoring the warnings about mixing drinks with the pills.

“Delicious aroma,” commented her guest.

“Yes. Roger always insisted on fresh coffee.” She turned to collect the tray, brushing against his arm as she passed with her uneven strides. The slur in the woman’s speech was even more pronounced. He regretted his decision to stay as she reappeared with a tray, carried at a lop-sided angle, its contents sliding towards one corner. He averted disaster and landed it safely on the table. At least the ham and tongue salad looked appetizing. With unsteady hands she lit a pair of large red candles and in a trice the room lights were off. “Cosy, isn’t it?” she splashed, “Alistair. You don’t mind if I call you that, do you?” She didn’t wait for an answer. As she handed him a salad, he was confronted by the indisputable fact that the buttons of her blouse had been undone since she had started to prepare the supper. The floral-patterned bra bulged a pressing invitation at him. The situation was getting out of hand. The Law Society didn’t care for that sort of thing. Oh God! She gave him a huge, theatrical wink. Oh for ‘Match of the Day!’ he thought.

“I like it by the fire—don’t you?” She said with rich innuendo.

“Supper, you mean? Oh yes. I always have supper by the fire.”

“That wasn’t exact … exaxsherly what I had in mind,” she sniggered, her eyes rolling about helplessly. The remains of her glass of sherry fell to the carpet and Duncan made to assist.

“Forget it. It doesn’t matter,” she slurred “the carpet needs a drink.” He cursed himself again. He questioned whether he had deliberately set himself up by seeing her in the evening but told himself that the answer was ‘no’. The evening meeting had been at her insistence and against his wishes. She hadn’t wanted to upset the children. It had sounded plausible.

The charade of conversation was broken as Alice Goodhart lurched forward to take his empty plate. Time stood still as her breasts hung, pendulum-like, before him. He rose to leave when she reappeared with a plate of fruit salad, which she thrust before him, shooting the sugary liquid up the left sleeve of his green velvet jacket. Were cleaning bills chargeable against the Legal Aid Fund, he wondered? She slumped to the carpet in front of the fire and proceeded to nuzzle her body against his thigh, rubbing her brown curls against his pelvis with comfortable familiarity.

“That’s nice! Why don’t you come and sit on the floor, Alistair?”

“Oh no thank you Mrs Goodhart; it’s bad for the digestion you know.”

She sighed. “Oh Alistair; this is so … so enchanting,” she concluded triumphantly, but with some difficulty.

“Enchanting” was hardly the word which the solicitor would have chosen as he shovelled at the fruit salad. She seemed to sense his resistance and was fumbling with the zip on her trouser suit. He put down his plate and, abandoning any pretence of waiting a polite interlude before leaving, gasped with mock surprise as he looked at his watch.

“My God! I shall be locked out, I must go.” He rose from his seat but she reached out to stop him. In doing so her trousers fell to the floor, revealing the suspenders and panties. It takes a lot to scare a prop-forward but Duncan was scared. Not of the woman but of the situation.

“For God’s sake! Don’t go! Can’t you see? I need screwing. Do it! Do it now!” She clung to his calves. “Don’t go!” Seeing his shake of the head. “Oh God! Am I that ugly now! Look at them!” She wrenched the blouse apart, revealing the full vista of her breasts. But it was no good.

“You’re far too attractive, Mrs Goodhart! I can’t possibly stay!” He moved to the door. She tried to stop him but the trousers round her ankles prevented it. She collapsed in a sobbing heap.

Only once before had Duncan ever turned down the chance and this second occasion was far harder to resist. He put his arms under her knees and round her neck and placed her gently on the sofa. Her eyes were glazed, her hips bursting with passion. “I am sorry, Mrs Goodhart, but I can’t.” He kissed her gently on the forehead. “I’ll let myself out.”

“You’re a poofter—just a poofter,” she called after him. Then her head rocked back unconscious.