Henry and Cato (17 page)

The flat was small and rather cramped. The yellowish carpet from the corridor continued underfoot. Some large dark pieces of furniture, a dominating wardrobe, a big square desk, created equally dark spaces into which nothing else could reasonably fit. A long brand new leather sofa, with the price tag still attached to one foot, stretched diagonally across the sitting-room. The rest of the furniture was shabby and looked as if it had been assembled from the maids' rooms at the Hall. There were two wobbly bamboo tables with thick green glass ash trays upon them. Some varnished bookshelves were empty except for thrillers and a book about speedboats. All the furniture seemed to lean and push and lower, and Henry found himself instinctively veering and ducking. The atmosphere, stuffy with tobacco smell and with a sweetish odour which Henry could not diagnose, was oppressive, irritating rather than sinister. There were some random prettifying touches: an embroidered footstool, a pair of soapstone elephants, a watercolour of the Hall from a set at Laxlinden. There was also a comical-faced Chinese lion which Henry remembered from long ago. Averting his face from this little presence he hurriedly rifled the drawers of the desk finding theatre programmes, the menu of a club dinner, pamphlets about boats, nothing of interest. Most of the drawers were empty. What after all had he expected? The place was tidy. The beds made. Henry walked about breathing deeply and inhibiting emotion. What came nearest to making him gasp was the provisional almost juvenile nature of it all. Against what had Sandy fought this losing battle? Doubtless he would never know.

Suddenly overcome, Henry ran to the kitchen in search of a drink. He found a bottle of whisky in one cupboard, a glass in another. He automatically opened the refrigerator in search of ice. As he was trying to pull out the ice tray he became aware of some food in the fridge, tomatoes, cress, a jug of milk. He picked up the milk and smelt it. Fresh. Henry considered this. He extracted the ice and put it into the glass. He closed the fridge. Then he noticed a folded newspaper which was lying upon the dresser. He took up the newspaper and looked quickly at the date. Yesterday. With a shaking hand he poured the whisky over the ice and retreated to the sitting-room.

His first thought was that Sandy was not dead at all but living secretly in London. But this was insane. His next thought was that Sandy must have sold the flat. But if the flat had been sold would not the deeds have been passed on to the purchaser? A confused feeling of guilt and fright dimmed Henry's mind. This was no empty derelict flat, it was
someone's
flat. This now seemed obvious. He thought he could hear a clock ticking. He decided to leave at once. He gulped down the whisky and seized his hat. And at that moment he heard the soft tap and click of a key being inserted and turned, and heard the front door scraping across the carpet as it slowly opened.

The sitting-room door was ajar. Henry stood still, paralysed with fright, expecting something unspeakable and uncanny. He could not move or speak. The front door closed. He heard someone sigh. Then the sitting-room door was pushed open and a woman came in. When she saw Henry she gave a little cry.

For a moment neither moved. Henry was rigid, hat in hand. The woman, still with coat and hat on, stood with her hands at her throat in an attitude of terror. Henry, to drown the echo of that cry, relieved too that he was not confronted with his brother, willed himself to speak. ‘I am terribly sorry—I didn't want to—I am so sorry—my name is Henry Marshalson.'

The woman very slowly moved, taking off her hat which she threw onto the red sofa which stretched between her and Henry. Then she dropped her handbag onto the sofa and began mechanically to comb back her hair with her fingers, her mouth slightly open, still staring at him.

‘Please forgive me,' said Henry. He was frightened of her fear. ‘I didn't mean to alarm you—you see—I'm my brother's heir—but there must be a mistake—perhaps this is your flat and—'

The woman came round the sofa and sat down upon it, one hand pressed to her heart. He could hear her breath. ‘Excuse me—being here—' her words were almost inaudible.

‘No, please—it's for me to—but—I mean—is this your flat?'

‘No—well—you see—he said—he would leave me the flat—in his will—but—'

Henry listened to this murmur, not understanding. He began again. ‘I'm very sorry—'

‘You see—I am—I was—his friend.'

This baffled Henry. He moved, dropped his hat on a chair. ‘I'm afraid I don't quite understand. You knew Sandy?—'

‘Yes—I knew—Sandy—'

Henry understood at last. ‘I see—I do apologize—I'm being very slow—I quite understand—of course—you—you have been living here with my brother?'

‘He said—if anything happened—I was to have the flat—but of course I didn't expect him to—and now that you—I'll move out as soon as—'

‘You certainly won't!' said Henry. ‘You must stay here, you must have the flat, I wouldn't dream of—after all you have a right, and Sandy must have wished—really I am so sorry—I mean about your—loss, your bereavement—How long had you—been with Sandy?'

‘Oh—a long time—it has been a terrible—'

‘Yes. I can understand. Do please feel—that if there is anything at all that I can do for you—'

‘Oh I'll manage—I'll be all right—you're very kind—'

‘After all I feel—responsible—just as if—Oh please don't cry!'

Her cheeks were glowing red, wet with tears. With a little distraught gesture she drew her hair across her eyes. Henry came and sat down beside her.

‘You are—so kind—Look, you are sitting on my hat.'

‘I'm so sorry!'

The woman, receiving her crushed hat from Henry's apologetic hand, shifted a little away from him, wriggling her coat back off her shoulders, extracted her handbag from behind her and with a quick nervous movement, turning her head away, began to dab powder onto her nose and cheeks. The cosmetic smell, the cheeks red and shiny with weeping, now coated with pale pink face powder, all suddenly so absurd, so close, made Henry's head swim. He felt awful pity, for her, for Sandy. The little instinctive defensive gesture with the powder touched his heart. She turned to him again, and with the hasty powder, the lip sticked mouth, the pencilled eyebrows, she looked like a doll, like a clown. Sandy's girl,

In fact she could not be very young, doubtless over thirty. She was plump and not tall. A frilly blouse, not perfectly clean, was stretched over a large bosom. One button had already given way. He could see her breasts heaving quickly. Her face was round with a heavy jaw line and a big prominent chin. The sticky red mouth was full-lipped beneath a faint moustache and rather small, the nose wide, with flared nostrils and assertively
retrousse.
Her eyes were large, round, set far apart, of an obscure darkish blue, and her hair, a bright brown, was arranged in a shaggy bob. The face was tired, experienced, certainly not the face of youth. Two deep lines framed the mouth. She presented herself now to Henry with a kind of desperate boldness.

‘May I know your name?'

‘Stephanie.'

‘I mean your—'

‘Stephanie Whitehouse.'

‘It is—Miss Whitehouse?'

‘Yes, I—I was never married—only—like with Sandy, and he never—you see, I'm not his sort and I never expected he'd marry me—I'm like out of the—not good enough for him—and I never thought—'

‘But he lived with you for years?'

‘Well—we were—He kept it a secret. I expect he was ashamed of me, he must have been. But he did say I could have the flat if anything happened—'

‘Of course you shall have the flat!' said Henry. ‘I'll make it over to you. Don't worry, please. And as for his feeling—why that's ridiculous—you mustn't feel in any way—You must let me help you.'

‘Oh, you are so kind—I can sort of manage, I've always had to—'

‘But Sandy supported you?'

‘Well, yes, he was very good about that.'

‘I should hope so. But what are you living on now?'

‘Well, I get my National Assistance and—'

‘I'll look after you,' said Henry.

She closed her eyes and turned away with a little gasp. She was fumbling for her handkerchief, tears streaked the pink powder. Henry got up.

‘You mustn't,' she said. ‘It's too much. I can get a job. I would have only I haven't been too well since the abortion.'

‘The abortion?'

‘Yes, I got pregnant, only Sandy didn't want the child so we got rid of it.'

‘Oh—' Henry's mind reeled. Would an illegitimate child of Sandy's have inherited the property? How perfectly extraordinary everything was which was happening to him now. Henry, noticing himself, found that he was exhilarated but had no time to ask himself why.

‘What is your job?' he asked. ‘I mean, what was it?'

‘Well, I used to—I'm an orphan, you see, and I never had proper school. I ran away when I was fourteen and came to London. I came to Piccadilly Circus, it was the only place I'd heard of in London. And then—you'll think I'm awful—I became a stripper.'

‘You mean a dancer?'

‘Well, if you call it dancing. I used to—the men were so awful. I was frightened all the time—you had to do—what they told you—so then I became a—'

‘You became a prostitute?'

‘Yes. Now you won't want to—'

‘Miss Whitehouse, please. I respect you absolutely, I beg you to believe me—'

‘It was an awful life.'

‘I'm sure it was. I regard you as a victim. But how did you meet Sandy?'

‘He saw me at the strip club.'

This sudden image of Sandy sitting in the darkness watching Miss Whitehouse undress touched Henry's heart with an awful thrill of truth. It was in some weird way the nicest thing that he had ever imagined about his brother. Sandy, the stranger, was there in that scene which Henry now in an instant pictured so vividly, the stuffy room, the silent staring men, the awkward vulnerable naked girl.

‘I was younger and thinner when I started, I was beautiful once so they said. You see I put on weight and—'

‘So Sandy—got to know you, and—'

‘He saw me, then we met again later on. He saved me really, I suppose. I don't know what would have become of me if Sandy hadn't cared.'

‘And he loved you.'

‘He said I was the
femme fatale
type. I think he was pleased that I was, like, what I was—'

‘Poor Sandy,' said Henry, to himself. The loneliness, the deadness of the dead. He felt touched fascinated curiosity, but a kind of shame prevented him from questioning her further, even now told him that he ought to go, to reassure her and then to go.

‘But of course I didn't know if he'd have gone on caring. I lost my looks, and when you aren't married to a man you have no security, and I was always scared he'd just say it was over.'

Her voice, with a slight Midlands accent, had a deep coaxing caressing rhythm which sounded all the time like some desperate pleading. Perhaps she had talked like that with the men who—And then there had been Sandy and of course she was not his sort and she never expected him to marry her—

‘Miss Whitehouse, I must go, I feel I am an intruder here.'

‘Oh please don't go!' Her hand was fluttering nervously at her breast, seeking to do up the errant button.

‘No, no, this is your flat, your property. And I hope that you will allow me to give you some financial assistance. After all—'

‘Please don't go! I'm so glad you've come. I've been so anxious, I thought I might get a letter from a lawyer I tidied up so like I wasn't here. I felt I oughtn't to stay but I had nowhere else to go. We hadn't any friends, you see. I just saw about him in the newspapers, and I've had no one to talk to. I lived like a prisoner, really, Sandy never liked—He was that jealous, he'd ring up all the time to be sure I was here—'

Sandy full of jealousy. Full of guilt too no doubt. Henry felt wild confused pity for both of them.

‘Don't worry, Miss Whitehouse, don't worry about anything now, I don't want you to worry about anything—'

‘But you will see me again, tell me what I'm to do—?' The big red-rimmed dark blue eyes looked up at him timidly, submissively, the little rhythmic coaxing voice pleaded. Henry thought, this woman must have made old Sandy feel like a rajah.

‘Of course I will.'

‘I loved him so much.'

‘Please don't cry again—'

‘I won't be a nuisance, I'll get a job, of course I don't mean
that
job—'

‘No, of course not. But what—er—else can you do?'

‘Well, nothing really, but—'

‘Don't worry—and, Miss Whitehouse, don't run away, will you—I mean what I say, I'll look after you. I want you to stay here.'

‘Oh thank you, thank you—'

‘Now I must go.'

‘You said something about—I hate to ask for money, but I'm down to my last—'

‘Oh of course, I'm so sorry—Look, I'll give you a cheque. Here, will this keep you going?'

‘Oh, that's far too much! I only meant—'

‘Nonsense, here, take it. I'll—I'll ring you. Let me just note the telephone number. Now you won't go away, will you, you promise?'

‘Oh I promise, yes! Thank you so much, you have given me new hope! You will come again, please?'

‘Yes, I will—very soon—I'll telephone you—I'll help you in any way I can—I give you my word—I'm so glad to have met you—I mean—'

Henry scudded towards the door followed hastily by Miss Whitehouse. They stood a moment together in the little hall. Henry held out his hand, then in a flurry of awkwardness took hold of her hand and bowed a little as if to kiss it, but did not do so. His head brushed the tight front of the frilly blouse, he felt a few hairs tangle on a button. He glimpsed fingernails, cracked and covered with flaking pink enamel. Her hand was small and plump and smelt of cosmetics.