14

‘Oh, please stay!’ Edith Woodcock said. They had gathered, the remnants of the family from the pool and the terrace, in the living room. The sky outside was growing darker and the wind was blowing in fierce gusts, punctuated by explosions of thunder. ‘Please,’ she said. ‘This storm will be over in a minute. We’ve had such a lovely family Sunday, with lunch and everything. Let’s continue it through dinner, shall we? Please?’

But one after another, politely and regretfully—remembering convertible cars left open in driveways, open windows in their houses that irresponsible servants could not be counted upon to close—all the family insisted that they must, truly, hurry home before it rained. And there was a hurried, ill-organised search for the equipment—towels, bathing caps, sweaters, sandals and handbags—that they had brought with them, and then there were hurried, apologetic good-byes with special attention paid to Barbara whom, they all protested, they should see more often. Would she be coming to the farm again soon? They hoped so. And the next time she came, would she give them a few days’ notice? They hoped she would because then they could plan a little dinner, or a little picnic, or a little luncheon, or a little group for cocktails, or a little something. And would she please, give all their love to Carson? And bring him with her the next time? And the boys—Dobie and Michael? There were so many friends who asked about Barbara and Carson and the little boys, and who would love to see them. So, when they came next time, let it be for a real visit, they said.

And then they were all gone, dashing for their cars, as the wind blew leaves from the trees and stirred up whirlwinds of dust from the drive. Barbara, Edith and Barney stood at the window, watching them go. ‘Oh, I wish they had stayed!’ Edith said plaintively. She turned to Barney. ‘Where’s Peggy?’ she asked.

‘She went downtown,’ he said. ‘She had an errand to do.’

‘What sort of an errand would she have to do downtown on Sunday?’

‘I think there was something she wanted to pick up,’ he said.

‘What, for heaven’s sake? Oh, dear! I just hope she’s not out in the car in this storm.’

‘They say a car is the safest place to be in a thunderstorm,’ he said.

‘But the roads!’ Edith said. As they watched, the first heavy drops of rain fell. ‘Well,’ Edith said, ‘I just hope she has sense enough to pull off the road and let the storm pass.’ She turned into the living room and began turning on lamps. The sky broke, and with a sound that nearly drowned out the sound of thunder, rain lashed down against the windowpanes. The lawn outside was suddenly lit with a great flash of lightning.

Barney counted, ‘One … two … three …’ And the clap of thunder came.

‘What are you doing?’ Barbara asked.

‘Just a mile away,’ he said. ‘They say you can tell how far away the storm is—by the number of seconds between the lightning and the thunderclap.’

‘I’ve never heard that!’ Barbara said.

Edith Woodcock sat down in a chair and reached for the enamelled buzzer that rested on the table beside it. When John came, she said, ‘John, are you sure all the windows are closed?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

Then the lamps dimmed, flickered and came up again.

‘Oh, don’t tell me the power is going to go off!’ Edith said. ‘At times like this, I wish we didn’t live in the country.’

Barbara crossed the room and sat down next to her mother; Barney still stood at the window, his hands deep in his trouser pockets, looking out. ‘Lord, look at it rain!’ he said.

‘What time is it?’ Edith asked.

Barney withdrew one hand and glanced at his wrist watch. ‘Four-thirty,’ he said.

‘It would have been so nice if they all could have stayed,’ Edith said to Barbara. ‘We could have had a little family supper. Do you remember, dear, the little family picnics we used to have across the lake? Weren’t they fun?’

‘Yes, they were, Mother,’ Barbara said.

Edith frowned, her chin resting on the curled finger of her hand. ‘I don’t know why we don’t have little picnics like that any more!’ Then she smiled. ‘I guess we’ve just got out of the habit,’ she said cheerfully. ‘And anyway, today was a lovely, lovely day, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes. Lovely,’ Barbara said.

‘Though I can’t understand Billy running off like that—without even stopping to say hello to the rest of us. It’s not like Billy to run off like that.’

‘I guess he had things to do,’ Barbara said.

‘Yes, I suppose. Poor Billy. He does work so hard. I suppose we should all be very grateful to Billy.’

‘Yes,’ Barbara said.

‘Barney, dear,’ Edith said. ‘Would you hand me one of my cigarettes from that little box there?’

Barney turned, went to the table and picked up the silver cigarette box. He opened it and carried it to her.

‘Thank you, dear,’ Edith said.

Barney flipped his lighter and held the flame to her cigarette.

‘Thank you, darling,’ she murmured again, through smoke. She raised one hand, and with a series of slow little waves, cut through the smoke with her fingers, dispersing it. ‘Now tell me,’ she said brightly ‘What did we all think of Sally’s young man?’

‘Very nice,’ Barney said.

‘Oh, Barney!’ Mrs. Woodcock said gaily. ‘Really, you are the limit! You’re so polite, dear—almost to a fault.’ She turned to Barbara. ‘Have you discovered how polite Barney is? Don’t you think he’s really polite to a fault? Honestly, I think that even if I introduced Barney to—to—well, to Nikita Khrushchev!—and asked him later what he thought of him, Barney would say, very politely, “Very nice”!’ She laughed, and Barbara and Barney both laughed softly with her. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I did not think he was very nice. I mean, actually. I thought he was a little bit weird, wearing that funny little pointed beard!’ She laughed again. ‘Goodness, I’m writing poetry—dear me! Weird, beard.’ Beyond the curtained windows a particularly brilliant flash of lightning outlined the trees and, simultaneously, the telephone jangled discordantly in the distance.

In the silence that followed, Edith said, ‘Well, children, what shall we do? Oh, I know! Let’s play Towie … Barney, dear, get the cards, will you? In that little drawer there …’

Barney smiled. ‘You always forget, Mrs. Woodcock,’ he said, ‘that I don’t know how to play Towie.’

‘Nonsense, I haven’t forgotten,’ she said. ‘But this afternoon, Barbara and I are going to teach you. Goodness, we have to do something, don’t we, to sit out the storm? And Towie is really the simplest game in the world. There’s absolutely nothing to it. It’s nothing but three-handed bridge, really, with a slightly different—’

Preston Woodcock appeared in the doorway and stood, one hand on the side of the door. Barbara looked up at him and Edith too, looked up.

‘—scoring,’ she finished.

‘I thought,’ Preston said slowly, ‘that I heard the telephone ring.’

‘You did, darling,’ Edith said brightly. ‘Just lightning hitting the wires. It’s forever happening, but it won’t affect the service, I’m sure. Preston? We’re just talking about playing Towie, but now that you’re here why don’t we make it bridge instead? Come, darling, and be our fourth. Peggy’s out somewhere, and—’

He shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m still busy.’

‘But it’s Sunday, dear!’ Edith said. ‘You’ve been holed up in that study of yours most of the day! Come, now, and join us.’

‘In a little while,’ he said. ‘Not right now.’ He turned and walked back toward his study.

‘Oh, dear!’ Edith said. ‘He’s been working so hard!’ She stood up. ‘Excuse me a moment,’ she said. ‘I’m just going to see if he won’t—’ She left the sentence unfinished and went out of the room after him.

Barney walked back to the window and rested his palms on the sill, looking out. Barbara sat quietly in her chair and for several minutes only the sounds of the storm filled the room. Then Barney said softly, ‘It won’t work.’

‘What won’t work?’ she asked him.

‘She won’t get him to come out.’

‘Really?’

‘She’ll be in there for quite a while, talking to him. But it won’t be any use. He’s too busy being alone.’

She said nothing.

Still looking out the window, he said, ‘Are you angry with me?’

‘No.’

‘You seem very quiet.’

‘I’m—thinking,’ she said.

‘What are you thinking about?’

‘Well,’ she said, ‘I’m a little confused.’

He turned quickly and faced her, leaning back against the window sill. ‘Are you?’ he asked. ‘Why?’

For several minutes she had been debating in her mind whether or not to tell him what Cousin Billy had said. She had thought first of speaking to Peggy or perhaps to her father, about it. And she had also thought that perhaps it would be better to speak to no one; tomorrow, she would be leaving, and perhaps it would be better to escape that way and leave the controversy behind. It was a controversy, she felt weakly, that she did not completely understand. She had never understood or cared about—as Peggy had said—the corporate intricacies of the paper business. Problems of the family, of course, concerned her, but not problems of the business. And yet the family was the business, as Billy had said, and she had begun to wonder whether Peggy and Barney were planning to betray them both. So she said, ‘I don’t quite understand what you and Peggy are trying to do to the rest of us.’

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Go on.’

‘Woody said something to me last night,’ she said. ‘And this morning Peggy said she wanted to buy my stock. Just now Cousin Billy said—’

He nodded slowly. ‘So that’s what he wanted to see you about. He knows, then.’

‘It’s a small business and a small family,’ she said. ‘It isn’t easy to keep secrets.’

‘Of course,’ he said.

‘What is it, exactly, that she wants to do?’

‘It’s very simple,’ he said. ‘I think you know all there is to know. She wants to get a controlling interest in the company.’

‘But why?’

He shrugged. ‘She thinks she deserves to have it,’ he said. ‘And she thinks I could run the company better than it’s being run now.’

‘Could you?’

‘Possibly,’ he said. ‘I don’t know.’

‘It doesn’t seem from what Billy told me—to be a very practical thing to do.’

‘She’ll have some trouble doing it, I admit,’ he said. ‘But don’t underestimate Peggy. She’s got all sorts of angles. I wouldn’t be surprised, actually, if she brought it off.’

‘I’d be surprised,’ she said. ‘But most of all I’d be very upset if she did.’

‘Why?’

‘Because she doesn’t deserve it. She doesn’t deserve to control the company. If anyone deserves it, Daddy does.’

‘Oh, I know,’ he said. ‘But I think Peggy has lost faith in your father.’

‘What do you mean?’

He raised his hands in an open gesture. ‘Just—just lost faith in him, that’s all. As an administrator.’

‘I want you to ask her to stop it,’ Barbara said.

‘Why? Why do you care?’

‘I care,’ she said quickly, ‘because of Daddy. Peggy forgets. Maybe she was too young to remember what I remember. But I remember very well. It nearly killed Daddy when they took the control of the company away from him and gave it to Billy. He’s really never been the same. What do you think would happen to him now if even more was taken away—and given to you? It’s been bad enough for him, taking orders from a thirty-six-year-old man. Do you think he could work for a man who’s still in his twenties?’

‘I suppose you’re right,’ he said simply.

‘Then will you please tell Peggy not to go any further with this? I’ll tell her, too, but I want you to help me.’

‘All right’, he said. ‘But I don’t know what good it will do.’

‘Barney,’ she said, ‘I’m confused about another thing. Where do you stand in all this?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean—suddenly I don’t know. This morning, when you met me at Nana’s—and on the rock, was it all part of a scheme of yours and Peggy’s? To get me to sell my stock?’

He came toward her. ‘Do you really think that?’ He stood over her, his dark eyes gazing deeply at her. ‘Do you really mean that?’ he asked her.

She looked away. ‘I don’t know. I asked you,’ she said.

‘Listen,’ he said, and his voice was a harsh whisper. ‘Don’t ever say that. Do you want to know where I stand? I thought you knew where I stood. Remember me? I’m the family’s pet Persian cat! I don’t stand anywhere. This is Peggy’s scheme, not mine. Of course she consulted me. No. Consulted is the wrong word. She told me, that’s all, what she planned to do. A year ago, or even six months ago, I might have cared about what she wanted to do. But I don’t now. I simply don’t give a damn now. As far as I’m concerned she can try whatever she wants to try. I don’t care, because it doesn’t involve me any more. I’m going to leave her, Barbara. I’ve made up my mind. I’m not going to be engulfed in it—in the business, and the family—the way everyone else is. I’m going to escape, somehow—I don’t know yet quite how. But I’m not going to let this family and this company—because they’re the same thing, as everybody keeps saying—submerge me and destroy me the way they’ve destroyed everybody else. Do you understand what I’m saying, Barbara? Do you?’

‘Oh, Barney—’

‘Quiet. Listen to me,’ he said. ‘Listen! It’s destroying you, too—it will, if you let it. It will destroy you, just the way it’s destroyed your father, and destroyed Woody, and destroyed Peggy. You’ve got to escape, too. You asked me where I stood, and I’ll tell you—there’s only one thing I care about, Barbara. You know what it is. I want the two of us to go away together.’

‘But we can’t.’

‘So you said this morning.’

‘Don’t you believe it?’

‘Not yet. Not quite,’ he said.

‘How can two people run away from their responsibilities?’ she asked, but the words which she had intended to sound sensible sounded foolish.

He smiled. ‘That’s for the two people to discover,’ he said.

‘We couldn’t. Even if we wanted to.’

‘You mean you don’t want to?’ he asked her.

‘I’m—well, I’m very flattered, of course, and—’

‘Flattered? Is that all you feel? We’re in love with each other.’

‘That’s the point,’ she said quietly. ‘I don’t think we are.’

He looked momentarily stunned; his eyes closed. ‘But I love you,’ he said finally. ‘And you love me.’

‘No. I don’t think I do.’

‘You told me you did.’

‘Did I?’ she asked a little wildly. ‘I don’t remember saying that, Barney, and if I did—’

‘What about that night? That night in your room?’

‘Did I say that then?’

‘What else did it mean?’ he asked her.

‘Sit down,’ she said. ‘Please sit down.’

He didn’t move. Another of his small half-smiles crossed his face, then disappeared. ‘I want to stand up,’ he said. ‘I lost the argument on the rock this morning because I lay down. I let you gain the upper hand. This time, I want to keep my head higher than yours.’

‘You’re such a funny boy!’

‘Tell me what it meant,’ he said. ‘Please.’

‘Well,’ she said. ‘there were a number of things wrong with that night. Carson and I had had a quarrel for one thing. I was feeling sorry for myself. And I was younger then. It was only two years ago, but a person can grow up a great deal in two years. I’ve thought about that night often. I was immature then, I must have been. It was a very selfish thing for me to do, or think of doing. It was a very greedy thing. I thought you were attractive. I still do. I was playing a very silly little game. I flirted with you. I thought—how pretty to have this handsome young man like me! I thought, what fun! I thought, all right, why not? What difference does it make? I’ll have an affair with him.’

‘An affair?’ he said quietly. ‘Is that all it was going to be?’

‘Sometimes I think I grew up too quickly,’ she said. ‘Other times I think I grew up much too late. Sometimes I think I’m a very unsatisfactory human being. Sometimes I think I should go off to a Himalayan mountaintop and contemplate the sunrise and find out what I am.’

‘An affair?’ he repeated.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Honestly, that was all I had in mind! A little affair we could both forget about afterward.’

‘What fun,’ he said. ‘How nice.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘I’m sorry, it’s true.’

‘I don’t believe it,’ he said, ‘because you’re not the sort of girl who has affairs.’

‘I’m glad you think that, ‘she said, ‘because, you see, we didn’t have one.’

He shook his head slowly back and forth. ‘You couldn’t have thought that,’ he said.

‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘what happened that night isn’t important. Because nothing happened! We were very lucky. Saved—literally—by the bell. The important thing for you to remember now is that I’m happily married. And you’re happily married, too. Peggy is very dear to me, even though we’re very different. She’s my sister and I couldn’t do anything to hurt her. I mean this, Barney.’

‘Peggy,’ he said slowly, ‘is a heartless and mercenary bitch, obsessed and consumed by the idea of money.’

‘You told me once that you respected money, too. You said you thought it was a perfectly decent thing to serve.’

‘That’s true,’ he said. ‘I could serve money in a true way, not Peggy’s way. You said yourself that what Peggy wants to do would kill your father. But did you know that Peggy knows this? And doesn’t care? She doesn’t care if it kills him because she thinks he’s weak. And weak people deserve to be killed, according to Peggy.’

‘And I simply don’t believe that!’ she said.

‘It’s true. Of course she doesn’t want him literally to die. Just—just spiritually. She wants to finish the job your dear old grandfather began.’

‘That’s ridiculous,’ she said angrily.

‘Is it? I don’t think so. I think it’s a family trait.’

‘Please, Barney!’

‘No,’ he said. ‘You haven’t seen it. You’ve seen the outside, the politeness, the family love as they call it. You haven’t seen the way each one wants to gobble up the others. You see everything all so close and loving! You see the little dinners and the lunches at the pool. You see this room—’ he started around the room, striking at objects with his hand as he went. ‘Curtains made in France, tables and chairs made in England, rugs from—I don’t know—Persia, I suppose, and—’

‘Don’t be absurd,’ she said. ‘Rugs from Sloane’s or Altman’s. Barney, please stop this.’

‘What difference does it make where the rugs come from? The point is, that’s all you see—lovely things, this lovely house, lovely people. I used to think I wanted everything the Woodcocks had, until I saw that it was all rotten.’ He picked up the cigarette box and slammed it down. ‘You’re so loyal,’ he said. ‘It makes me sick to see you so loyal! Don’t you know they’ll never be loyal to you? The strong eat the weak in this house, Barbara, and they’ll eat you because you happen to be good. And goodness is weakness in this scheme of things. Look at your father. Look at Woody—’

‘What’s wrong with Woody, for heaven’s sake?’

‘Haven’t you seen him? Gone, defeated. Given up—just a little mechanical figure that hops along the ground!’

Suddenly there were tears in her eyes. ‘Be quiet!’ she said. ‘You don’t have any business talking this way! Just because you’ve never had a family that loved you, you have no business insulting ours!’

He came now and stood in front of her again.

‘I think you’re right!’ she said. ‘You should leave Peggy! I think you should get out of this house and never come back. You never did belong here, and if you’ve hated this house and this family so, you had no business staying. You’ve lived as a guest in this house for two years. You should be grateful! We’ve done everything for you and if you can’t be grateful, you should get out!’ She started to stand up, but he quickly knelt beside her and seized her wrists.

‘Barbara,’ he said softly. ‘Barbara—’

‘Let me go!’

‘No, no. Wait. I’m sorry. You’re right. Let me tell you something—’

‘No, I don’t want to hear any more!’

‘Listen,’ he said. ‘Please listen to me. I’m sorry. You’re right, Barbara, I am the villain. I’m the worst kind of person, Barbara. You said you wanted to find out what kind of person you were, but I know what kind of person I am. There’s a dirty word for men like me. I married your sister under false pretences. I didn’t love her. Every word of my marriage vows was a lie. But do you know why, Barbara? Do you know why I’ve stayed here for two years?’

‘No. Why?’

‘It’s a very simple reason. It’s because, in this house, I’m as close to being with you as I can possibly be, without being with you. It’s one of the advantages of being a family pet. I can go into your bedroom and I can open your closet doors and see a few dresses of yours that are hanging there, and your shoes, and I can open your dresser drawers and smell you inside there. I can go into the room that used to be your nursery, and see your toys and your old dolls and the books with your name scribbled inside them. I can look through the snapshot album on the piano and see your picture on most of the pages. I can see the photographs on your mother’s dressing table. I can see the water-colour in the dining room …’

‘Please stop,’ she said.

‘No,’ he said. ‘No—you asked me why. It’s because I can walk along the path to the lake where we walked, sit on the pier where we sat—touch things you touched, see things you saw. I can do all this and nobody knows what I’m really doing—that I’m making love to you, seducing you! So you see! You see what kind of man I am? I’m not a very good pet, am I?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘No …’

‘Do you know where I was yesterday when you telephoned? I was all alone. I was in your room, doing what I always do there—touching your things. And when the phone rang, it was like a miracle! It was you. I’d been sitting there, remembering that night, the first time I met you on the terrace—the night you said you’d teach me how to swim. And the phone rang. And it was you.’

Still holding her hand, he lowered his face and rested his forehead on the arm of her chair. ‘I didn’t use to be like this,’ he said softly. ‘The thing is, I need you.’

She sat quietly now, unable to speak or think. At last she said, ‘Do you mean that really?’

‘Yes. You’re the valuable thing. The only thing that will make me valuable.’

‘Such a strange thing,’ she said. ‘Such a strange thing to say. I don’t think anyone has ever said a thing like that to me before.’

‘It’s true.’

Suddenly she bent and kissed his dark hair; immediately she felt awkward and ashamed that she had done it, but she had done it, and so she continued to hold him there, one hand seized in his, her face lowered to his head, a curious perching and suspended position which she tried to hold, thinking; It’s true that no one has ever thought this of me, or loved me this much!

‘I don’t deserve it, Barney!’ she said. ‘I don’t deserve to be thought of that way, don’t you see? I’m not that pure and good, I’m—’

Then there was a sound and she looked up. Nancy Rafferty stood at the doorway in a dripping raincoat. ‘Yoo-hoo!’ Nancy said. ‘Anybody home? Oh, there you are!’

Barney rose quickly to his feet. Nancy came into the room. ‘Lord, what a storm!’ she said. ‘I had a ghastly time at the station, trying to get a taxi to bring me out here, but at last I did. Oh, God, it’s wonderful to be here, Barb!’ She turned to Barney. ‘And you,’ she said. ‘You must be Barney.’

Barbara was standing now, too. ‘Barney,’ she said, ‘this is my friend Nancy Rafferty. Nancy, this is Barney Callahan.’

‘I’ve heard so much about you!’ Nancy said.

‘How do you do?’ Barney said. And then, ‘Excuse me, please.’ He turned and walked out of the room.

Nancy giggled and squeezed Barbara’s hand. ‘Well!’ she said. ‘I do apologise, Barb! I did that all wrong, didn’t I? I should have coughed, or something, before barging in. It’s a habit of mine, isn’t it—barging in? Remember Schuyler? But he is attractive, isn’t he?’

‘Are your bags in the hall?’ Barbara asked.

‘Just one bag. I packed in an enormous hurry. But I had an hour between trains in New York so I dashed up to Saks and bought the most divine vamping dress. Let’s go upstairs. I want to show it to you. If this doesn’t wow Woody, darling, nothing will! Oh, Lord what a storm! I’m simply drenched,’ she said. Together, with Nancy holding her arm, they started toward the hall.

Preston sat at his desk and Edith sat behind him, on the sofa, smoking her cigarette. ‘I think the rain is stopping,’ she said.

He looked up absently. ‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Won’t you join us now, dear? The house is so quiet and lonely without you!’

‘Not quite yet,’ he said.

She smiled rigidly at him. ‘Won’t you tell me what you’re doing?’

‘It’s just a little project, Edith. For the moment, it’s a sort of’—he hesitated—‘secret.’

‘I see,’ she said. She stood up and walked to the window. The window faced the terrace, and, beyond it, the sloping lawn. ‘I was remembering just a while ago, the little picnics we used to have across the lake. Remember, dear? They were fun, weren’t they?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘They were fun, Edith.’

She turned to him. ‘Am I disturbing your concentration, Preston?’ she asked him.

He put down his pen and smiled at her. ‘No,’ he said. He pushed his chair back and started to rise.

‘Where are you going?’ she asked him.

He smiled again, picking up his empty glass. ‘Just going to freshen this a bit,’ he said.

‘Preston,’ she said, ‘you don’t want any more to drink.’

He laughed softly. ‘What is it about a woman,’ he said, ‘that makes her feel she knows exactly what a man wants and what he doesn’t want?’

‘Preston, dear.’

‘Will you have one with me, Edith?’

‘Preston, that’s not the point. You’ve had enough.’

‘And a woman is always sure she knows when a man has had enough.’

‘Sit down, dear,’ Edith said pleasantly.

His face, which up till then had been composed and cheerful, seemed to fall, and he stood there, swaying just slightly, looking haggard and bewildered. He raised his empty glass. ‘I—’ he began. Then he sat down. ‘I’ve only had two,’ he said.

‘I want to talk to you,’ she said.

‘What about?’

‘Something that’s been preying on my mind.’

‘What is it?’

‘I think,’ Edith said, ‘that when something preys on someone’s mind, the person ought to speak about it, don’t you? And not keep it—secret?’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ he said.

She lifted the fingers of her left hand and frowned at her rings. She let her hand fall quickly to her side. ‘Sometimes I think I tend to bottle things up in myself too much,’ she said. ‘When something worries me, or troubles me, I tend to bottle it up, not say anything, not express it. This time—’

‘Yes, Edith?’

‘This time it worries me too much. It’s worried me for too long.’

He said nothing.

‘If I tell you what it is, will you promise not to be angry with me?’

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Promise? Swear?’

‘I promise,’ he said dully.

She drew in her breath and quickly said, ‘Preston, you’re sick. Preston, you should see a doctor, a different doctor, a—’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘You’re a drunkard, Preston. I know.’

‘I’ve only had two.’

‘You’ve had more than two.’

‘Now, don’t call me a liar, Edith. I ought to know—’

‘Please,’ she said. ‘Let’s not have a scene.’

He sat with his hands resting loosely on his knees, looking down at the square of green carpet beneath his feet. ‘Now look,’ he said after a moment. ‘This is pretty silly, isn’t it? I mean, I—’

‘You’ve been drinking all day,’ Edith said. ‘You’re no longer sober, Preston.’

‘That’s not true.’

‘It is true. I think we ought to talk about it. I think we ought to discuss it, bring it out in the open.’

‘Please leave me alone,’ he said.

‘I think that’s been part of the trouble, Preston. I’ve left you alone too much. Now it’s gone too far. You can’t be left alone.’

‘I’m not a child, Edith.’

‘No, darling,’ she said. ‘Of course you’re not. I’ve revised my whole thinking about this, actually. You know the way I was brought up. Liquor was never served in our house. If my father ever touched a drop of liquor in his life, I never knew about it. We used to see the drunks on the streets in Providence and I was always told that they were horrid, dirty, sinful old men. Now of course I don’t think that any more. I’ve become—oh, really quite modern about it, all things considered. I enjoy an evening cocktail as much as anyone, dear, you know that. But this is different.’

‘Is it?’

‘Yes.’ She came and perched on the edge of the sofa again, facing him. She clasped her hands together in her lap, in an attitude of supplication, and leaned forward earnestly. ‘This,’ she said, ‘this thing with you is nothing to be ashamed of, Preston. It’s a sickness, dear. It’s like—well, it’s like a disease, or a condition. I know this, Preston, because I asked Billy. Billy and I discussed it at some length. Billy says that a sickness, actually, is what it is. One of Billy’s friends from Yale—that Stu Gates, remember?—went through the same sort of thing about two years ago, Billy said, the exact same thing. It was a sickness. And Billy says that the good thing about it being a sickness is that it can be cured, darling. But he says that the thing you must realise is that it is a sickness, and see a doctor. It isn’t a sickness that requires hospitalisation or anything like that, but there are definite cures that medicine has worked out for cases like yours. I don’t know what they are, but Billy assured me that in Stu Gates’s case, it was simply incredible what happened to Stu. He’s a changed man, now, literally, Billy says. And he’d been simply impossible before. And Billy says—’

He slammed the heel of his palm hard against the arm of his chair. ‘God damn it!’ he said. ‘What the hell do I care about what Billy says? Shut up about what Billy says!’

‘Preston!’ She sat back.

‘I mean it,’ he said. ‘What do I care what Billy says?’

‘But Billy knows.’

‘What the hell does Billy know? And why the hell should you be talking to Billy about me?’

‘I’ve had to, darling. I’ve had to.’

‘What do you mean you’ve had to? What else have you and Billy talked about besides this?’

‘Lately, many things. More and more things, Preston. I didn’t want to, Preston. But what else could I do? I had to seek advice from someone. I had to talk to someone.’

‘But why Billy?’

‘Despite what you say about him, Billy has a logical mind.’

‘Don’t I have a logical mind?’

‘Not always. Not when you’re the way you are sometimes. You can’t see yourself the way you are sometimes. Billy has, though. And I have. So I finally spoke to him.’

‘And deserted me.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’ve deserted me, too. Just the way Father did—deserted me for Billy.’

‘That’s not true.’

‘It is. It is. Get out of here. Leave me alone.’

She stood up, smoothing the front of her dress. ‘If you won’t listen to reason, there’s nothing more to say.’

‘I’ll listen to reason. I won’t listen to Billy.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘But Billy knows. He knows you’re a drunken man. You’re an alcoholic man. Everyone knows it. Everyone in the family, everyone in town. It’s hardly a secret, whether you know it or not. It’s humiliating! “How is Mr. Woodcock feeling today?” they ask me—people in town, people I hardly know. People who wouldn’t have dared speak to your father or mother on the street in this town now speak to me, accost me, feeling that they are privileged to speak to me because they’ve seen a bond of commonness in you! “How is he feeling?” they ask me. “Why, perfectly fine, thank you!” They smile at me. They think, who is she, so high and mighty? Who does she think she is? She’s no better than Mrs. Pat O’Marra down on Railroad Street whose husband comes in reeling every night, too! “Perfectly fine, thank you,” I say, and they smile at me and say, “He was feeling no pain last night.” Where? Where was he last night? At the club. At what club? Oh, any one of a number of clubs—clubs that aren’t really clubs at all, just taverns, dives and shacks—any place that has a bar. Places where you go after work, or where you go during work. Your secretary—at three o’clock in the afternoon, last week, when I called. “Mr. Woodcock is out of the office. I don’t expect him back today.” “Where has he gone?” “Oh, I really couldn’t say, Mrs. Woodcock.” And last Thursday morning, a policeman. Yes, Preston, a policeman! A policeman on the corner of Main and Elm in Burketown. Suddenly, last Thursday, he stopped me, blew his whistle! Pulled me over to the side of the street. “Mrs. Woodcock,” he said. “Yes? Yes?” I said. “Yes? What have I done, officer?” And he said, “I’m Patrolman Olin, Mrs. Woodcock. My father is Frank Olin who’s a cutter at the mill.” I don’t know this man, Olin! But he knows you and he knows me! And I said, “Yes, yes, what is it?” And he said, “It’s about Mr. Woodcock, ma’am. I really don’t think he ought to be driving a car, the way he is sometimes”.’

‘That’s a lie,’ he said quietly.

‘It’s not a lie! Why should I lie? It’s the truth. It’s the truth! “The way he is sometimes!” Don’t you think I knew what he meant, Patrolman Olin? The way you are most of the time, he should have said! Oh, I’m so sick and ashamed of it, so sick and ashamed of it! Ashamed of pretending there’s nothing the matter with you when all along—all along—everybody—oh!’ From where she kept it tucked, beneath the belt of her dress, she tugged at her handkerchief, withdrew it, dabbed at her eyes and nose. ‘I’ll leave you alone now,’ she said. She turned and went quickly out of the room.

He sat in his chair for a while, then stood up. He went to the cellarette and fixed his drink, carefully measuring it, just right, the way he wanted it. He swirled the liquid in the glass, admiring the pale glow. He carried his drink to the window and looked out. The rain had stopped and he looked out across the lawn, the trees, the acres of his domain. He lifted his glass and drank a toast to the acres so serene. Then, as if he had bidden it to, the sun came out instantly and brilliantly. In the immediate aftermath of the storm it etched every outline and detail of leaf and blade with such precision and sharpness that, for a moment, he felt almost overwhelmed, dizzied from the sudden clear beauty of it, and his chest filled with violent sunbursts of happiness. It was the way the grass lay, flattened by the rain, and the way the maple leaves hung limp and dripping, and the way all this green glittered as though God had sprinkled diamonds over everything.

Then, behind him, he heard Edith’s voice again, at the door. ‘Preston, Nancy Rafferty has just arrived. Let’s try, for Barbara’s sake, to make it a happy evening, shall we?’