An Unsuitable Attachment (13 page)

'Good evening,' she said.

'Good evening,' he replied.

They stood for a moment in mutual silence and surprise, rather as Sophia and Rupert had stood on Ianthe's doorstep, or like two strange cats meeting each other for the first time.

'I heard the bell ring,' he ventured at last. 'So I opened the door. I don't live here, but it seemed the obvious thing to do.'

'Thank you,' said Ianthe. 'I wanted to see Mr Challow. I hear he's ill.' Perhaps dead, she thought suddenly; that might explain the clergyman's presence. 'Perhaps you were visiting him?' she asked.

'Mr Challow? No—I was visiting Mrs Gammon who owns the house. I'm the vicar of St Mary's.'

'Is Mrs Gammon ill as well, then?' asked Ianthe helplessly.

'Not that I know of. She's not at home. It's her bingo night,' the vicar explained.

'Bingo?'
Ianthe gave the word a horrified emphasis, for it sounded unsuitable coming from his pale lips. 'Tombola' would have seemed more dignified.

They were standing in a narrow hall, with a bicycle propped against one wall and stairs leading down to a basement. The floor was littered with papers—coupons offering '3d off soap powder and frozen peas, and literature about television insurance and reconditioned sewing machines—which had evidently been thrust through the letter box. There was no sound in the house, apart from what might have been the twittering of a caged bird coming from one of the closed doors on the ground floor. Then a kind of muffled shouting could be heard somewhere underneath them, as if somebody was having a fight or an argument. Ianthe felt tired and rather hopeless.

'I've come to see a young man from the place where I work,' she said, trying to sound firm and businesslike.

'He didn't come to work this morning and we're afraid he may be ill.'

'A non-appearance at work doesn't necessarily mean illness,' said the vicar, with what Ianthe considered unbecoming cynicism. 'He might have been at bingo.'

'Surely not in the morning?' Ianthe protested.

'I was speaking metaphorically—they do not as yet have morning sessions.'

'Well, I wonder where I can find him,' said Ianthe. She was getting tired of standing in the hall with this unhelpful clergyman.

'I expect Maureen—Mrs Gammon's daughter—will be able to tell you. She's in the basement watching "the telly'"—he picked out the words sarcastically—'though she did glance away from the screen just long enough to tell me that it was her mother's bingo night. Perhaps she'll do the same for you. I hope you will not have had a fruitless journey, Mrs er—'

'Miss Broome,' said Ianthe firmly, putting down her shopping basket which was beginning to feel very heavy.

'Good night,' said the vicar, opening the front door.

'Good night,' said Ianthe, watching him go. She had not liked him very much but she judged him to be one of those unfortunate men who dislike their neighbours even more than they dislike themselves and as such he was to be pitied, plodding on from day to day among his bingo-playing telly-watching parishioners. How much nicer Mark Ainger was, assuming in his remote kindness that everybody knew about the things he was interested in himself and being much too charitable to pass judgement on other people's amusements, however unlike his own though they might be.

The sounds of shouting and gunshots might have alarmed Ianthe had she not realized that they were coming from the television programme in the basement. As she stood uncertainly at the top of stairs leading down, she began to wonder how she was going to make herself heard above the noise. But fortunately at that moment there was a break in the programme. She heard a jolly male voice saying,

Something something something means

Lots
and
lots
of chocolate beans.

What the 'something' was she didn't catch—perhaps Life itself?

'Excuse me,' she began, 'I wonder if you could tell me . . .'

A tall girl, her dark hair obviously just washed and half done up in rollers, came to the bottom of the stairs.

'. . . where I could find Mr John Challow,' Ianthe said.

'Number four—on the first floor,' said the girl, 'but I don't know if he's in yet.'

'He's all right then—not ill?'

'I don't know. I haven't seen him for a day or two,' said the girl, 'but he usually comes in about now.'

'Thank you—I'll go and see,' said Ianthe, hurrying away when she realized that the television programme was starting again. She felt disquieted at the lack of interest the girl had shown—anything might happen in this sort of house, she told herself indignantly. And supposing he were not ill at all—how embarrassing that would be.

As she mounted the stairs there was a sound of rushing water. An Indian wearing a turban came out of a door on the half landing and, with a slight bow, waited for her to pass. Again her mother's face and voice came before her, and she hurried past the Indian, annoyed with herself for feeling embarrassed. It was with a considerable sense of agitation that she found herself opposite room number four.

She knocked—surely too timidly for anybody within to hear—and a faint voice said 'Come in.' Opening the door a crack she saw John lying in bed, unshaven, and , tousled, his pillows tumbled and the blue rayon eiderdown slipping on to the floor.

Although from her upbringing it might have been thought that 'visiting the sick' would be a part of her daily life she had hardly ever—thanks to the Welfare State—had to perform this duty, and then only with her mother or father. She had certainly never visited a sick young man alone.

'Ianthe—I knew you'd come,' he said simply.

She put down her basket and advanced towards the bed. The only chair she could see was being used as a bedside table and held a glass of water, a strip of Aspro tablets and a box of paper handkerchiefs. However romantically ill John might look, it seemed that he had nothing worse than an unromantic cold.

'We were worried about you,' Ianthe explained, sitting down on the edge of the narrow bed. 'So I told Mervyn I'd come and see if you were all right.'

'Were
you
worried about me?' he asked, his voice breaking into a croak.

'Well, of course,' she said in confusion, unable to meet the penetrating glance of his brown eyes. 'I've brought you a few things,' she said, glancing back to where her basket stood on the floor.

'Thank you,' he said. 'And you brought yourself—that's the most important thing.'

In a sense he was right. When one is ill it's the knowledge that somebody cared enough to come and see one that matters more than the flowers and the lemon barley water. 'I must try and make you more comfortable,' she said. 'Hasn't anybody been looking after you or bringing you food?'

'I've only been ill since Saturday evening and of course yesterday was Sunday and most people stay in bed anyway then.'

Ianthe reflected for a moment on this depressing picture of the bed-sitting-room world, with no church-going to give meaning to the day, though presumably Mrs Gammon might go sometimes.

'You might have been seriously ill,' she said.

'Well, what happened when
you
were ill last week—did anybody come to see you?'

'Yes, the vicar's wife and . . .' Ianthe hesitated, unwilling to mention Rupert Stonebird.

'
I
nearly came,' said John, looking up at her, 'but then I thought you mightn't like it. I mean if you were in bed and not feeling and looking your best.'

Ianthe could think of no ready answer, so she looked round the room to see if there was anything practical she could do. In one corner there was a sink and a gas ring, partly hidden by a screen, a pile of unwashed crockery on a small table and a red plastic bucket filled with empty tins, tea leaves and broken egg shells.

Indignation surged up within her-that he should have to live like this.

'I'll wash up some of these things,' she said.

He tried to protest, but rather weakly. '
You
shouldn't be doing things like this for me,' he said.

'But one likes doing things for people,' said Ianthe firmly, for of course she had been brought up to think that one should, though perhaps this situation was a little different. As she worked she could not help contrasting this cheerless room with her own spare room where—had it not been impossible, she told herself quickly—John might now be lying. The comfortable bed—she was sure this one was not—the restful pale green walls to look at instead of this busy pattern of soiled beige and brown abstract shapes—the soft cream Indian carpet instead of the dirty patterned rug by the bed on the frayed chocolate brown linoleum. John loved beautiful things, she felt sure; it must be painful for him to live in such surroundings, perhaps humiliating too for him to have her realize that this was all he could afford to live in.

At last she had finished her work at the sink and looked doubtfully at his bed—surely it would be more comfortable if it were remade? The sheets were twisted and the blankets had slipped down to one side.

'You must get out of bed,' she said, 'and sit in this chair—then I can remake your bed.'

'Oh, I couldn't let you do that,' he said. 'They'll see to it for me.'

A disquieting picture of the girl in the basement came into Ianthe's mind and she was almost shocked to realize that she did not like to think of her looking after John. She stood in the middle of the room with a vase of daffodils in her hand, not quite knowing what to do.

'I'd rather see you like that than making my bed for me,' said John. 'I shall think of you every time I look at them.' He lay back on the pillows, smiling at her.

Somehow she wished he had not said that. It was too obvious, glib almost, and she did not know what answer to make.

'I suppose I ought to go now,' she said, picking up the eiderdown from the floor and making a vague attempt to straighten the blankets. 'I hope you'll soon be better.'

'It was sweet of you to come—it's done me so much good. I'm really ashamed of this awful place but of course I'm not staying here long.' He raised his head and smiled to her again in a curious way, his eyes seeming to be laughing at her. 'I'm thinking of moving to a room on Campden Hill,' he added.

'Campden Hill? Oh, that's where my aunt's sister lives—my aunt by marriage, you see—in Aubrey Walk,' Ianthe said.

John was silent, perhaps because of this rather daunting information, the proximity of Ianthe's aunt's sister making his room on Campden Hill seem rather less likely.

Ianthe was trying to imagine what the room would be like and where exactly the house would be but somehow did not like to ask for further details. She gathered up her handbag, gloves, and empty basket and prepared to leave.

'Is there anything else you need?' she said.

'Well . . .' He hesitated. 'I hardly like to ask-it's so embarrassing.'

What could it be? Ianthe wondered. 'Something I can get for you?' she asked.

'No, not exactly. It's only that I haven't been able to get to the bank, being ill and all that, and I haven't got any money for the rent. I suppose I could let it go for this week, though.'

'Oh no, you mustn't do that,' said Ianthe quickly. She found it most distasteful to think of him owing money to the bingo-playing woman in the basement. She took out her wallet and found that she had six pounds and ten shillings which she placed on the chair by his bed. 'Will that be enough to be going on with?' she asked.

'Oh, that's fine, but I feel so awful asking you. Are you sure you've left enough for yourself?'

'Yes, of course—I've got some silver and I can go to the bank tomorrow.'

'I couldn't ask just anyone.'

No, of course he couldn't ask just anyone, Ianthe thought, as she walked towards the bus stop, but she was glad that he had felt able to ask her. She wanted to do things for him—it seemed to give some purpose to her life to have somebody depending even a little on her. That was what one was here for, she thought; doing things for people like Miss Grimes and John was, after all, one's Christian duty. The fact that it was much pleasanter doing things for John was really quite irrelevant. What a pity it was that he should have to live in that depressing room. If only conventions were not so rigid she could easily have had him for a lodger. But of course that wouldn't do at all.

As she passed the vicarage she was startled to see Faustina picking her way along the front wall with a palm cross in her mouth. How unsuitable, she thought censoriously, though of course the crosses had not yet been blessed. The cat had probably been in the vestry and undone the parcel they were in, though it was just as likely that Sophia had given her one to play with.

Ianthe entered her house, her thoughts now on John again. There was a folded note lying on the floor by the front door. It was an invitation from Rupert Stonebird to the dinner party he had mentioned some time ago. She put it down on the table in the hall and went upstairs smiling. She had been wondering if she would have gone to visit Rupert if
he
had been ill, or if she would have left it to Sophia.

The day comes in the life of every single man living alone when he must give a dinner party, however unpretentious, and that day had now arrived for Rupert Stonebird. 'My dining room faces north and is difficult to heat,' he had said to Ianthe, and now he stood in it looking out of the window at the cold March day, fully conscious of his words. Daffodils were coming up in the garden but it would be dark when his guests came to the house to eat their meal. He could not expect them to be warmed by the idea of daffodils coming up outside. Light the paraffin stove
now
, he thought, crouching uncertainly with a box of matches, wondering if it ought to be propitiated in some way. A libation of pink paraffin had already been poured into it—like a great can of pink gin—it ought to burn well on that. Mrs Purry, his daily woman, was due to arrive during the afternoon to polish and lay the table, hoover the carpet, dust the room, and—most important of all—cook the meal. Rupert was not one of those men with any sort of talent in the kitchen, but he could at least light the stove.