7

‘We must go,’ the man said again. He sounded angry and a little unhappy.

His wife put down the photograph at once and rose to her feet, smoothing her skirt down with her hands. ‘All right,’ she said, ‘What time is it?’

‘Gone one, and I’ve a meeting at three.’ He turned in a businesslike way to Claude and held out his hand. ‘It’s been very pleasant meeting you, Mr Perkins. May I ask if I hire a van to fetch my desk, or do you manage that side of it?’ He made to disengage his hand, but Claude held it firmly.

‘As a general rule I let my customers make their own arrangements,’ said Claude, ‘but you live quite near, so I’ll deliver it personally. Some time next week – maybe Monday or Tuesday. Tuesday most like, man.’

‘That’s very good of you. Much obliged.’

‘Do come again some time,’ invited Julia vaguely.

The couple got into their car. It was a big shiny car and there was a fluffy toy dangling from a string in the rear window. The woman didn’t wave goodbye. She bent her head, as if looking for something, and then the car drove off up the street.

Julia went straight into the kitchen and began to attend to the child’s nappies. Claude squatted beside the sink and put his hand in the waste bucket. ‘That fellow’s cheque is in here somewhere,’ he said.

‘His cheque?’

‘You swept it up, my love. It’s there somewhere. Look for it, Ju, when you’ve a moment.’

He stood upright and went out into the yard. He wiped his fingers on the white pillow in the pram. He decided he would deliver the desk in two weeks’ time, not one. He would put his arm about the woman and get her to confide in him. They would become friends and he would make her life richer, more varied. He would help her to sort out her husband.

Entering the barn, he walked its length until he came to the green sofa. He often sat here when he wanted to be alone. No one could spy on him, because it was impossible to see through the little window: the glass was too dim, and the creeper that climbed about the barn was too thick. He sat down and took the letter from his pocket and read it.

Sunday, September 4th, 1960

Dear Flower,

Could you send me that photograph you took of us in the garden. It’s urgent. I don’t think Edward wants to marry me after all. Actually, it doesn’t really matter because I’m not pregnant now. I must have got my dates muddled. Anyway, I don’t think Edward likes me very much – I can sort of tell. I don’t particularly want to marry him, but I would like a chance to refuse, if you know what I mean. How are you and Julia? Norman says he tried in the barn but Julia wasn’t having any. I want the photo just to show Edward. If it’s a pretty one, I mean if I look quite nice, maybe he’ll like me again. Please don’t forget. Norman says Shebah wore her bandage for weeks, till it fell off with filth. Are you happy? If Edward does vanish I shall just live a normal, sensible life – no more messes or intrigues. This time I mean it. Don’t laugh. Have you read a man called Wallace Stevens?

There is or may be a time of Innocence,

There is never a place. Or if there is no time

If it is not a thing of time, nor of place –

and something and something. There’s a lot more like that. He used to go up and down in lifts in America. He worked in Insurance. Please take care. You could light a candle for me. Blessings, L.

P.S. I’m a bit anxious really. I know I’m not pregnant by Billie, but I may well be by Edward. Isn’t it awful!

Claude read the lines of verse several times without making much sense of them. He decided Lily had probably remembered them wrongly or disordered the punctuation. He folded the letter neatly and rose from his seat and went to the newly bought desk. Opening the right-hand drawer he thrust the letter into the darkness for the woman to find and read. He returned to the house and climbed the stairs to the living-room. He picked up the photograph from off the sofa and propped it on the mantelpiece. Through the window he noticed the cat from next door moving across the yard to lose itself in the long grass of the little garden. Sucking strands of beard in at the crinkled corner of his mouth, he went downstairs.

The photograph remained on the mantelpiece for a long time. It accumulated dust and was bent at one corner. On the right-hand side there were three figures, two of them sitting on the ground and the third slumped scowling on a wrought-iron bench, skirt stretched tight over stout thighs. On the left, isolated, hunched, crouched the fourth figure, not looking into the camera. The sun had gone behind a cloud.

The three friends posed on, marooned in a summer garden.