25

Rain came on the night of the committee meeting. It dripped from the garden gnomes in Crimea Road and lay in pools on the caked lawns. The sky was dark and bleak; dried leaves rattled on the suburban trees. In small back gardens children’s toys lay scattered, their tired paint revived. Wallflowers and the last of the roses were fresh again in the gloom.

The rain spread from the west. It fell in Somerset in late afternoon; it caught the evening crowds unprepared in London. A woman, glad to see it, walked through it in a summer dress. A man in Putney, airing his dog, lost his dog on the common and died in October of a cold that had become pneumonia. The umbrellas of the cautious, a handful only, moved smugly through Knightsbridge. Seagulls darted on the river; elderly tramps huddled around a tea-stall near Waterloo Bridge, talking of winter doss-houses. Women whose place was the streets stared at the rain morosely from windows in Soho, wondering how the change would affect their business and guessing the worst. People with rheumatism said it would affect their bones and recalled the pain that the damp air presaged.

At the Rimini the water leaked through a cracked pane in the sun-lounge, dripping dismally on to a hat of Mr Sole’s. Miss Burdock picked garden tools from the paths and flower beds: secateurs and clippers, various trowels and forks. With an old cape of Major Torrill’s thrown over her head, she returned them to their rightful place in the summer-house, whispering about the carelessness of several residents, naming them in her mind. She would speak to them tomorrow: if they wished to potter in her garden they must prove their worth. There was malicious damage in the wallflower beds; and Miss Edge had cropped the daisy chrysanthemums. Not even the rain would save them now.

In a public-house in Barking Mrs Strap sat in one bar and Mr Harp in another. They did not know one another, nor did they know that men he had once met had been lifelong friends of the man whose money now bought her a row of whiskies. It was not even a coincidence that they were there; it was not even extraordinary. And though they met before the night was out and walked together through the rain, they did not discover that there was a conversation they might have had.

Mr Jaraby walked slowly along Crimea Road. The rain soaked his trousers and was cold on his skin. He walked beneath the orange glow of electric light, trailing his stick a bit, moisture in the crevices of his face. He tried to count how many days it had been since it rained before. He talked to himself, counting and reminiscing. A dog came towards him and he recognized it as the one that had been Monmouth’s enemy. Its owners complained that Monmouth had torn half its tongue out. ‘A fair fight,’ he had retorted, closing the door on a woman in an overall. ‘I saw it myself,’ he told her husband. ‘The dog began it.’ The dog was a big Kerry Blue, a rare enough breed these days. It skulked along the pavement, well away from him, smelling the ground. Its owners said it had been valuable but was no longer so, with only the roots of a tongue left. Mr Jaraby watched its damp, dark haunches shift through the rain. He made the clicking noise one makes to attract a dog’s attention. It was too far away to hear.

In the house he took his clothes off and replaced them with pyjamas striped grey and green. He put on his dressing-gown and lay on his bed listening to the rain.

Watching the play, Mrs Jaraby could hear the rain on the french windows. On the small screen a blonde woman in a white jumper was talking to a youth in a tweed overcoat in a kitchen. The youth moved from the kitchen to a sitting-room, stripping off his overcoat. The woman had a face like a cat’s, though prettier than Monmouth’s. She entered the sitting-room with a tray, and something that might have been an altercation took place over a gramophone record. The youth put on his overcoat again and began to leave; he changed his mind, taking off the overcoat. The two embraced, the woman stroking the youth’s hair.

Then the woman was pulling the curtains back, and Mrs Jaraby guessed it must be morning; although she was puzzled by the macintosh that the woman was wearing. The youth was still in bed, playing with a pillow, speaking angrily.

Suddenly, in the same flat, there was a man in shirt-sleeves and waistcoat, washing his hands in the bathroom. He was a big, heavily-built man, a contrast to the youth. There was a confused passage then, minutes of soundless dialogue. The woman was weeping, the men at a loss.

Mrs Jaraby sat still, watching carefully. She worked the play out in her mind, relating character to character. The youth put on his overcoat, the man his jacket, the woman was still in a macintosh. There wasn’t much action in this play. She preferred it when cars were used, when the camera moved from one place to another. She felt that a climax was approaching, but she knew it wouldn’t be very exciting.

She heard her husband in the house; his footsteps on the stairs; his slow movements in the bedroom above. When she listened again there was silence and the rain had stopped.