Enough to Kill a Horse (7 page)

Just then, from the garden, a voice called her, ‘Fanny!’

It was Jean Gregory. She came hurrying into the kitchen by the back door, carrying a great armful of almond blossom. Above the cloud of pink flowers, clinging to the angular, leafless twigs, her face was unusually flushed.

‘I brought you these in case you’d like them to decorate the room for your party,’ she said, ‘because – because Colin and I can’t come.’ Her flush mounted as she said it.

‘You and Colin can’t come?’ Fanny said incredulously. ‘But you said – ’

‘Yes, but a horrible – a perfectly horrible – thing has happened.’ Jean held the flowers out in front of her stiffly, as if she felt they provided her with a shield. ‘Colin and Tom Mordue have had the most frightful quarrel and after the things Tom said to Colin, I won’t – I simply won’t – let him stay in the same room with him. So if Tom’s coming – I’m awfully sorry, Fanny, and I’m terrified that perhaps you won’t forgive me – but if Tom’s coming, Colin and I can’t!’

Fanny sat down. With one hand she clawed at her hair, with the other she groped blindly for a cigarette. Basil put one into her mouth and lit it for her.

‘I’m awfully sorry, Fanny, awfully,’ Jean went on quickly. She looked down at the flowers now as if she were wondering why she had brought them.

‘It can’t be helped,’ Fanny said wearily. ‘What happened?’

‘It’s a complicated story.’ Jean turned to Basil. ‘Are these any use? If they aren’t – ’

‘They’re beautiful,’ he said, taking the armful of blossom. ‘We’ve no almond in our garden. I always look at yours with envy.’

‘What happened?’ Fanny repeated.

‘It was about Susan,’ Jean said. ‘Colin got an idea that something ought to be done about Susan now that – now that – ’

‘Say it,’ Fanny said. ‘Now that Kit’s thrown her over – damn him!’

Jean looked startled. ‘Damn him? Why?’

‘Never mind,’ Fanny said. ‘But we all know that’s what’s happened.’

‘Well, it was because of that,’ Jean said. ‘Colin got it into his head that it would be a good thing for Susan to go away. He thought if she stayed here she’d get into the habit of being pitied by everyone and that that would be very bad for her. So two days ago he went to see some friends of ours who live in Essex. They’ve got four children and they always seem to be in need of someone to help with them. So Colin drove over – ’

‘Wait a minute,’ Fanny said. ‘
Colin
thought of all this all by himself?’

‘Yes, certainly,’ Jean said.

‘It wasn’t really you?’

Jean gave an emphatic shake of her head.

Fanny made a helpless gesture. ‘I shall never get to understand anything about people – never,’ she said. ‘Go on.’

‘Well, Colin drove over to see Joe and Miriam,’ Jean said, ‘and as it happened, their most recent nurse had just got married, so they were delighted to hear about Susan and said that whatever pay she was getting at the minute, they’d give her more. So Colin came home very pleased with himself and yesterday evening we got hold of Susan and put the idea to her – cautiously, of course. She was cautious too and said she’d have to think it over, but I believe she was really awfully pleased. She seemed to get more and more interested in the scheme as the evening went on, though she kept saying that she couldn’t possibly go at once, because that wouldn’t be fair on the people she’s with now, who’ve been very good to her. And right at the end she said she’d have to talk it over with her parents. Till then I thought she was going to make up her mind for herself, but just when she was leaving she said it would depend a lot on what Tom and Minnie thought. And that’s what made the trouble.’

Basil was arranging the flowers in a tall stoneware jug. ‘Tom was angry?’ he asked with that air of quiet concern which was his response to most of the more unpleasant things of life.

Jean gave a whistle. ‘Honestly,’ she said, ‘I’ve never seen anything like it. I’ve seen him make some horrible scenes, but never one that came near this one. If he’d settled down with a paper and pencil to make a list of all the worst insults he could offer Colin and me – ’

‘You too?’ Basil said gravely, as if insulting Colin were only a venial offence, but insulting Jean a serious matter. ‘Dear, dear.’

‘Well, not directly,’ Jean said. ‘But he insulted me through Colin. And as I was saying, if he’d taken hours thinking out all the most outrageous things he could say – ’

‘He probably did,’ Fanny said.

‘I really shouldn’t be surprised,’ Jean agreed. ‘It was the most extraordinary exhibition I’ve ever seen. He came in just before lunch. At first I thought he was drunk, his face was so red and his manner was so wild, but actually I don’t think he’d had a single drink. And he – he called Colin …’ The painful flush returned to her pale cheeks. She hesitated, then went on, ‘Well, it doesn’t matter what he actually said. It was all about Colin’s interfering in Susan’s private affairs because he – he hadn’t enough to occupy himself. Only he put it in such a horrible way.’

Fanny and Basil exchanged a glance.

‘And what did Colin do?’ Fanny asked.

‘Nothing at all,’ Jean said excitedly. ‘Absolutely nothing. You know what he’s like. He never loses his temper. He never bothers to defend himself if people attack him. He just sat there looking conciliatory and saying that he quite understood Tom’s feelings – until
I
lost my temper. I wasn’t going to let anyone say those things to my husband. So I started telling him a few of the things I’ve thought about him for a long time. So then Tom ordered me to keep out of it, just as if he was still a schoolmaster and I was one of his miserable pupils, and then Colin …’ Her voice trembled and stopped.

‘Colin got wild too?’ Fanny suggested.

‘No,’ Jean said. ‘At least – well, I’m not sure. I’m not sure what it meant …’

‘Something he said?’

‘No, the way he started to laugh. He just roared with laughter until Tom rushed out of the house.’

‘Then at least it coped with the situation,’ Fanny said.

‘Yes, but …’ Jean stopped again. Her voice was still unsteady. ‘I didn’t like it. I got scared suddenly. And that’s why … I didn’t mean to say this, but once I started it just went on coming. Fanny, I don’t think those two ought to meet again today.’

Fanny gave a reluctant nod. ‘My poor party,’ she said. ‘But I know how you feel – though they’ll probably make it up quite soon over a pint in The Waggoners.’

With a look of doubt in her eyes, Jean said, ‘Probably – I hope so. Colin says even now that he isn’t angry, and that he could have told me beforehand that it was going to happen exactly like that. He said he was quite prepared for it and really did understand Tom’s feelings, because Tom naturally took the whole thing as a deliberate criticism of him and his care for his daughter. And actually Colin said he didn’t at all mind meeting Tom this evening and wanted to come to the party. So then I took a high line and said I’d been insulted unforgivably by Tom and I utterly refused to be in the same room with him again, so there wasn’t much Colin could do but agree that we shouldn’t come. Fanny, I’m sorry, I’m terribly sorry about it, but I think it would be much more likely to upset your party if we did come than if we didn’t.’

‘It can’t be helped,’ Fanny said, ‘though I wish it was you and Colin who were coming and Tom who’d decided to stay away. But things never work out like that. Lunatics like Tom never withdraw from anything.’ She gave a mournful smile at Jean. ‘Don’t worry, my dear. They’ll patch it up in a day or two. We’ll see you both soon?’

‘Oh yes – yes, of course,’ Jean said gratefully. She paused for a moment as if there was something more she intended to say, but then abruptly left them, her wide grey coat swirling about her as she turned.

Fanny let out a long breath, then looked at Clare, who had been standing unobtrusively by the sink, quietly continuing with the washing-up.

‘Having fun?’ Fanny asked.

‘I’d have had more fun if I’d understood the terrible insults that Mr Mordue hurled at Mr Gregory,’ Clare replied. ‘According to my understanding of the story, he merely called him a busybody, which unquestionably Mr Gregory was.’

‘That’s because you don’t know the set-up,’ Fanny said. ‘It’s quite obvious what really happened. Tom turned on Colin and abused him for living on his wife’s money – I wouldn’t put it past Tom, when he’s in one of those moods, to have called Colin a gigolo – and any criticism of Colin on those lines is the one thing on earth that Jean won’t tolerate.’

‘Naturally – whether it’s true or not,’ Clare said. ‘Is it true?’

‘It’s just silliness.’ Fanny looked round the kitchen vaguely, seeming rather surprised at the tidiness that had gradually been achieved there. ‘I think I’ll go and lie down for a bit,’ she said. ‘You two can talk to each other.’

She went out, leaving Clare and Basil a free hand in the kitchen.

Going upstairs to the bedroom she shared with Basil, she threw herself down on the patchwork bedspread that covered the bed. Her cheerfulness at lunch had changed into a mood of appalling depression. Fanny hated all conflict and generally found ways of avoiding it, but when she failed in this, she at once became despairingly convinced that the particular conflict would never end. There again, she thought, she and Colin were alike. She could easily imagine herself, in circumstances where a quarrel was being forced upon her, taking refuge, as Colin had, in the laughter that had so dismayed Jean. It had been semi-hysterical laughter, of course, which was why Jean had been frightened by it.

For some minutes Fanny lay quite still, then she fumbled for the usual cigarette and started to puff smoke at the low ceiling. The sense of extreme depression lasted only for a little while, then her resilient nature helped her to see the brighter side of things. If her various friends wanted to quarrel with one another, at least none of them seemed to want to quarrel with her. If Laura was not the sister-in-law that she would have chosen, at least she seemed to want to be liked. If poor Susan, of whom Fanny was genuinely fond, had a broken heart, at least she was young enough and enterprising enough to set about getting it mended. And if other people were sometimes a trial to one’s patience, at least Basil, at any time of crisis, never failed one.

As always, when darkness covered Fanny’s earth, her troubled mind groped towards thoughts of Basil and found them deeply comforting.

She had slipped into a light doze, her cigarette consuming itself in the ashtray on the table by the bed, when a step in the passage and a light tap on her door disturbed her. She called out a sleepy answer, the door opened and Kit came in.

She saw at once that there was something unusual about the look on his face, though at first she could not interpret it. Afterwards she thought that more than anything else it had been a look of tension, of waiting, as if he felt sure that some extraordinary thing were about to happen and was trying to force himself to bear the strain of suspense without protesting at it.

‘Have you got any aspirin?’ he asked in a quiet, flat voice.

‘Probably,’ Fanny said. ‘Why, have you got a head?’

‘Laura has,’ he answered, coming into the room and walking over to Fanny’s dressing table. He pulled open a drawer. ‘Where is it – in here?’

‘I expect so.’

He fumbled about amongst handkerchiefs and scarves.

‘She gets awful heads,’ he said. ‘They lay her out completely for hours.’ His tone was still dull and empty, as if he were carefully avoiding talking about what was in his mind.

‘Hours?’ Fanny said in sharp alarm. ‘You don’t mean she’s going to be laid out flat for hours
now
?’

‘Quite likely.’ His voice suddenly rose in nervous exasperation. ‘Where are the bloody things? I can’t find them!’

Fanny got heavily to her feet and went over to the dressing table.

‘There they are, right in front of you,’ she said, picking up the bottle of aspirins that Kit’s hand had been almost touching. ‘The way you never can find anything for yourself … Has she really got a bad headache, Kit?’

‘It’s bad enough that she’s gone to lie down,’ he said.

‘And she may have to lie down for hours?’

‘I said that’s quite likely, didn’t I?’

‘And not come to my party?’

‘I don’t expect she’ll feel much like drinks if her head’s splitting.’

Fanny sat down at the dressing table. She stared at her face in the glass. She stared at it with a look of deepening disfavour, as if in some way it had just let her down unforgivably.

‘You’ve been quarrelling, haven’t you?’ she said. ‘Is that why she’s got a headache?’

‘She’s gone in for them all her life,’ Kit answered, his voice toneless once more. ‘They can happen at any time. It’s just bad luck that one’s happening today.’

‘You don’t think it’s just that she doesn’t want to come to the party?’

‘Why shouldn’t she want to come?’

‘Perhaps because Susan’s coming.’

‘Why should she mind that?’

Fanny picked up her comb and wrenched it through her short, rough hair.

‘Doesn’t she know about Susan?’ she asked.

‘For God’s sake, what is there to know?’ Kit demanded in a thin, tense voice.

‘I wish I really knew,’ Fanny muttered. ‘Anyway, everything seems to be a mess – my poor party particularly.’

‘And I wish you’d stop dropping hints about Susan,’ Kit said, going towards the door, the bottle of aspirins held in a clenched hand as if it were a bomb that he was preparing to throw. ‘There never was anything on Susan’s side, except that she quite liked me. D’you think I’d have let you invite her today or that she’d have agreed to come, if there’d been more than that?’

‘I don’t know,’ Fanny said. ‘I don’t know what people are capable of. Sometimes I feel I don’t know anything about them.’

‘You might be right at that,’ Kit said and walked out.

Fanny went on pulling the comb through her hair. She went on looking at herself. She went on searching for something in her own reflection that at the moment she could not find there. Then she dabbed clumsily at her face with a powder-puff, reached for a bottle of perfume, put rather too much of it on her neck and her wrists, got to her feet with a sigh and went downstairs.