Chapter 6

Wednesday, 10 March, 1971

Although it was after lunch Samuel Harrop was lying on the settee dressed in pyjamas and a dressing gown. He tried not to move, as every muscle contraction, however slight, sent waves of sickening pain crashing through his body. He looked at the rosewood clock on the matching sideboard. Five minutes past two; in twenty-five minutes he could have another dose of morphine. He mustn’t weaken and take it before then, he must keep his mind clear until he’d seen Nancy. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, tell anyone else. She’d be appalled, but he knew she’d still love him and would do what was right. He must get Clara to let him see her.

He carefully turned his head to look round the sitting room, his favourite room in the house. The French windows leading to a grassy slope, rich with primroses, the Art Deco furniture he’d collected over a number of years, the streamlined Paul Frankel sofa, in ebony and black lacquer and the matching armchairs. Near the wall was his music centre and his collection of records and tape cassettes. He’d loved to lie on the settee, the French windows open, the sea breeze coiling round the house, wafting the curtains. He’d close his eyes and listen; perhaps a favourite Benjamin Britten opera, the rich voice of Peter Pears filling the room. Now the windows were locked and he couldn’t open them and he dreaded hearing any music as it prompted thoughts that soon all would be silence.

Immediately he’d seen Nancy and was sure she’d do what he wanted, he would commit suicide. He’d hidden a bottle of morphine many months ago and he would make an end to it. He was a coward and he’d be leaving Nancy to deal with the fallout of his confession. He grasped the arm of the settee as a wave of pain twisted his gut. Would telling her put her in danger? Only if only he knew he’d told her.

Why wouldn’t Clara let him see Nancy? Nancy knew about their false marriage. This last month Clara had made him a prisoner in his own home, she’d dismissed the cleaning lady and the gardener, and he was too physically weak to escape. She’d even removed the phones so he couldn’t ring for help. He must reason with her, bribe her, promise her anything as long as he saw Nancy. He couldn’t, mustn’t, die without making reparation. Nancy would be horrified, disgusted and frightened but she would see justice done.

He glanced at the clock again: it was time. Through the open door of the sitting room he heard Clara’s footsteps on the tiled floor of the hall. She came into the room and paused in the doorway. ‘It’s time for your medicine.’

As always, she was immaculately dressed and groomed. Her brown hair was swept back into a hairstyle reminiscent of Maria Callas, her favourite soprano; on her it seemed like a helmet. She wore a jade-green wool suit and black high heels.

‘Shall I fetch it?’ she asked.

He nodded. She turned and left the room, returning shortly with a tray on which was a medicine bottle, two glasses, one empty, one containing water, and a spoon. She placed them on a small table near him.

He forced himself to sit up. As he moved the smell of his unwashed and decaying body made him gag. This morning Clara had refused to help him bathe, and he was so weak he was afraid if he got in the bath by himself, he might sink beneath the soapy water and drown. Clara didn’t love him, but he’d thought she was fond of him. Now he knew she despised him because he was weak, dying and she hated the ugliness of his approaching death.

He measured the morphine with the spoon into the empty glass, just enough to take the edge off the pain, but not enough to bring even a brief oblivion. He wouldn’t let Clara give him his medicine: he no longer trusted her.

He washed the bitter taste away with the water in the other glass. ‘Clara, I need to talk to you.’

She sat on one of the armchairs, planted her feet firmly on the carpet and stared at him, her face expressionless. ‘I’m not letting you see Nancy until you tell me what you want to see her about.’

‘Clara, I haven’t much time left. Before I die there is something I must tell Nancy. Lives depend on it. I should have told someone before, but I was a coward.’

She leaned towards him, her face flushing. ‘Why can’t you tell me? What is it? She knows you’re a homo. What else is there to tell? What do you mean, lives depend on it?’

Sam flinched at her description of him. His throat tightened and the room seemed to press in on him, the armchairs turning into squat black toads. He was hallucinating. ‘Please, Clara.’

She leant against the back of the chair, hands resting on the arms; in emerald green with her crown of hair she was like a queen, ruling over his life.

‘I promise to fetch Nancy if you tell me what you are going to tell her. I don’t want to look a fool when she finds out you haven’t told me. I think that’s the least I deserve. I am your wife and I’ve acted my part all these years. I know you’ve had lovers, but I’ve never done so, no scandal has come through me.’ She paused. ‘I promise to fetch Nancy if you’ll tell me what you’re worried about.’

He’d have to risk it. At least one person would know the truth and even if she didn’t bring Nancy, perhaps her conscious would make her reveal his secret.

He lowered his head, so he couldn’t see her face and told her.

She drew her feet towards each other, until it looked as though her legs were glued together.

‘Who’s behind all this?’ Her voice was calm.

He told her.

She sat still for several minutes. ‘I’ll go and see Nancy now.’

He looked up. Her face was rigid like chiselled ice.

‘Phone her. She’ll come straight away. Let me phone her. Where are the phones?’

‘No. I want to see her before you speak to her. I won’t tell her anything. You must do that.’

Fear fluttered through his chest. ‘Please don’t leave me locked in. Something might happen while you’re out and I won’t be able to escape.’

Clara shook her head. ‘I’ll bring her back soon, I’ll leave now.’ She walked stiffly from the room. A few minutes later he heard the turn of the key in the front door and then the sound of her car pulling away.

Would Nancy come to see him? Clara seemed determined. Was she going to Nancy’s? Where else could she be going? He leant back, the cold leather pressing against his dying body as though it wanted to wrap him in a skin coffin. He longed to be covered by a feather-filled eiderdown, to press the morphine bottle to his lips, let the liquid trickle down his throat, rest his head on a soft pillow and to slip into a final sleep, and oblivion.

If she wasn’t going to Nancy’s, where was she going? To him? He shouldn’t have told her. Why would she do that? To challenge him? Or warn him? Could she be going to ask for help? Help to shut him up? God in heaven was she capable of doing that? He mustn’t think like that – it was the morphine twisting his brain. Supposing he died before he told Nancy, and Clara didn’t tell anyone? The horror would go on. What could he do?