My Name is Michael Sibley (20 page)

“I knew you wouldn’t mind. How are you, darling?”

“I’m very well, thank you.”

I could hear old Charlie Baines, who was in charge of the office, talking on the telephone to somebody in the Midlands; somebody else was rattling away on a typewriter in a corner of the room. Above both noises I could hear the rapid thudding of my own heart.

“You sound very stern, Mike. Is anything the matter?”

I made a supreme effort to sound normal. “Why, no; nothing at all. Just a bit busy, that’s all, darling. Have a good time. Don’t go to bed too late.”

“I won’t. See you tomorrow?”

“See you tomorrow,” I said. “And by the way, tell John we shall not be coming down at all this weekend. I’ll explain later.” I rang off.

I looked at the telephone receiver before replacing it. I saw it was glistening with moisture from the palm of my hand. I took out my handkerchief and wiped it before replacing it in position.

I tried to decide how much I was the victim of selfishness and jealousy, and how much I was moved by concern for Kate’s welfare. Two voices were disputing inside me.

One was insisting that I was mainly concerned with what was best for Kate. It was telling me that I was really very noble at heart, and that I would gladly sacrifice myself for Kate’s happiness if I could be convinced that it was in her interests to surrender her to Prosset. I was worried, said this voice, only because I knew that Prosset would never marry her, that she was not the type of girl whom Prosset would ever marry, and that if she fell in love with him it could only lead to disaster. This was a very loud voice indeed, and almost bellowed at me, doubtless because it knew it had a weak case.

The smaller, feebler voice was hardly more than a whisper, but I knew it could not be shut out because it was the truth, though I did not want the truth at that moment. It was less flattering: I was feeling just as any other man feels when he thinks some other chap may steal his girl. The very thought of it involved possessiveness, hurt pride, wounded vanity, incredulity and helpless fury all rolled into one giant ball of pain; and rendered the worse because with the jealousy there was mingled the feeling, born of old and perpetuated through the years, that in any contest with Prosset I was beaten before I started.

I went back to Harrington Gardens, but I ate no supper. Work was out of the question. I tried to read, but I could not concentrate. I drank a couple of stiff whiskies, which inevitably produced a steady flow of self-pity. It became clear to me that Prosset was not alone to blame; Kate must have encouraged him in some way, otherwise he would not have invited her out. Kate, who had been alone and unloved until I came along, had fallen for the first offer of a flirtation from the first man who made it.

Cynthia Harrison had at least been faithful. I mixed myself a third whisky and soda; stronger than the first two, for I was finding that although the self-pity was stronger, the actual physical pain in my stomach was disappearing. I felt muzzy in the head, but I welcomed that; my thoughts were wandering from Kate and Prosset, and I welcomed that, too. I saw myself back in Palesby telling Cynthia that she was a much nicer girl than Kate. As we talked she was full of understanding about how I had been led astray and full of commiseration for the dirty trick that had been played on me. I was giving her back the golden bracelet she had returned to me; and after that various people appeared and disappeared, including Aunt Edith, Mr. Martin and Ackersley.

I felt a hand shaking my shoulder and found Ethel standing with the usual cup of tea she brought me at 10:30 when I was in.

“Doing no work tonight, Mr. Sibley?”

“I intended to, but I must have fallen asleep,” I said.

I looked at the clock. It was nearer a quarter to eleven than 10:30. Kate would be home soon and the evening would be over, and that was that. I drank the cup of tea and had a wash and felt better. But one thing I was determined upon; we were not going down to Ockleton. Certainly not for some time, anyway.

That was now off, whatever Kate might feel about it.

Reaction from the earlier emotions set in and I felt foolish that I should have been so upset. If I put my foot down and saw to it that Prosset had no further opportunities to make headway with Kate, no harm would have been done. She had naturally accepted the invitation that evening, and I bore her no grudge, but it was not the sort of thing which I wished to happen again. The visits to Ockleton would have to cease. Kate would be disappointed, but she would do as I wished. I felt sure of it. Explaining matters to her would be difficult, though, and I spent a quarter of an hour thinking the problem over.

I decided that the best thing would be to tell her that although Prosset was a nice fellow in many ways, and a good friend of mine, he was a flirt, and the best way to avoid complications which might endanger our friendship was to avoid putting temptation in his way.

“He’s an awfully nice chap,” I could hear myself saying, “and nobody is fonder of him than I am, but he just cannot help trying to flirt with every girl he meets. It’s not his fault,” I would add, “he’s just made that way. None of us is perfect; all of us have good qualities and weaknesses, and his weakness is women.”

I sounded very convincing. I also thought it was rather subtle, since no woman who pretended to love a man would care to receive the odium for breaking up a lifelong friendship. Kate would see my point of view all right. She was a good girl—just a little inexperienced, that was all. She needed a little guidance.

I thought of her at that moment possibly laughing at some joke of his. He would be looking down at her, his handsome, dark face smiling and attentive, the inevitable cigarette between his lips. I felt a return, though in a less violent form, of the earlier wave of jealousy.

I looked at my watch. It was nearly eleven o’clock. Whenever I have decided to do something I am restless until I have started to put it into action. It was too late to start working, and it was too early for bed. I would go round to Kate’s room and have a talk with her there and then. I could not telephone her, because the people in the house did not like late calls, but I thought that if she was not at home already she would arrive by the time I had driven across to Manchester Square. I argued that I was just in the right mood of cool disapproval to put the point over with firmness.

I looked up when I arrived and saw that her room was in darkness; I let myself in with the key she had given me to avoid the necessity of ringing the bell on the numerous occasions when I called. I helped myself to a glass of gin and vermouth and sat down to wait, again running over in my mind what I would say.

At a quarter to twelve I decided that she would arrive at any moment; at midnight I began to think that Prosset must have taken her to have a meal somewhere after the racing, and at 12:15 I was sure of it.

But at 12:30 I had reached the stage where I was looking at my watch every five minutes and wandering restlessly about the room. I felt the old sick, jealous feeling gnawing away at my stomach. I told myself that I was being unreasonable; that it was very nice of Prosset to have bothered to give her a meal afterwards; that I hoped she was having a nice, gay evening because she deserved it: she had not had much fun out of life up to now, whereas I had had plenty. Moreover, it was the last time she would be going out alone with him, so it did not matter. Anyone who has suffered from jealousy knows how futile such reasoning is. I knew in my heart that I really hoped she had been bored stiff, and that she certainly had not been. One was amused, interested, entertained, made angry or resentful by Prosset, but never bored by him.

By one o’clock I was half alarmed and half angry and resentful. She had said she would be home in reasonable time and she was not. She had let me down. She had not kept her word. If she had had any understanding, she would have got home in reasonable time and telephoned me, and we could have had a chat. But no, she preferred to stay out and enjoy herself without a thought for me.

But was she enjoying herself? Perhaps they had had an accident. Prosset was not the most careful of drivers. Maybe she was lying in some hospital gravely injured and wanting me to be with her. Perhaps she was dead and could read every mean thought in my mind. I decided to wait until half past one and then drive round to Prosset’s place. At least it would be better than doing nothing. I could not telephone him, because I did not know the name of his landlord, and the only number I had in my diary was his office number.

I watched the hands on the little travelling clock by her bedside creep towards the half hour. At twenty-six minutes past, I was tempted to leave, but with a kind of masochistic determination I forced myself to stay until the time I had decided upon. Then I put out the light and went downstairs and let myself gently out of the front door.

I climbed into my car and lit a cigarette, thinking over what I would say on arrival. It would be better to tell at least part of the truth, and say that I was worried about whether anything had happened. Why not? I guessed that Prosset would look at me in his mocking way and assume that some other reason had brought me there. So what? Let him think what he liked.

I leaned forward and fumbled to find the slot for the ignition key, found it, switched on the current, and reached for the self-starter. But before I could start the engine a taxi drew up in front of me.

Kate got out. She was alone.

The light from a street lamp shone upon her yellow hair. She was wearing her near-white mackintosh. She fumbled in her leather handbag for some money, swayed back a pace, and went and leaned against the lamp standard still groping in her bag.

I opened the car door and scrambled out. I went over to her. Then I asked the taxi driver what the fare was, and paid him. He looked at me questioningly.

I said, “It’s all right. I know her. I’ll let her in.”

“Bit pickled, ain’t she?”

“Looks like it. Good night.”

“Can you manage, sir?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Righto, sir. Good night.” He reached out and slammed the door of the taxi and drove off.

I was left alone in the street with Kate. She was still fumbling in her handbag, oblivious of the fact that the taxi had driven off. I went over and took her by the arm. She raised her head and looked at me unsteadily, opened her mouth as if to say something, but did not speak. She was very white in the face and a strand of hair was hanging over one eye.

I led her up the steps without difficulty, but when she was faced with the staircase in the hall she slumped against me. I placed one of her arms round my neck, put my right arm round her waist, and tried to drag her up the stairs, but failed. So I picked her up bodily and carried her up to her room and laid her on the bed. As I was struggling to get her out of her raincoat, she recovered slightly and assisted me.

“You seem to have enjoyed the dog racing.”

She looked at me in a bewildered way. “Dog racing? We didn’t go. He didn’t want to go.”

“I see. What did you do? Or is that an unfortunate question?”

She had sunk back on to the bed with her eyes closed. She groaned and licked her lips.

“I’m dying,” she said.

“You’re not. You’re drunk, that’s all.”

I sat by her side for a few moments. There was no lipstick left on her lips and no powder on her cheeks. Her head was turned sideways, and I saw some red marks on her neck and throat. I got up to go.

“Well, good night, Katie.”

She stirred and moaned. “I feel awful.”

“You’ll feel worse in the morning.”

I felt oddly unemotional. I was tired, cold, but curiously objective, devoid even of anger or resentment now. Something which I had anticipated had happened; rather sooner than I had expected, it is true, but it had happened, and now it was over, it was past history.

Perhaps if she had not worn spectacles, if she had been more beautiful, I should have felt differently. She had dragged off her coloured spectacles and they lay beside her on the pillow. Her face looked thin and pinched and very pale, and childlike, and I guessed that if I placed my hand on her brow I should find it cold and damp.

I felt again that protective instinct I had so often experienced before in regard to Kate and never about Cynthia. I saw that it was all my fault. If I had not been so weak, she would never have been brought into close contact with Prosset. If I had taken a firm stand earlier, she would never have gone out with him.

For two weekends, unaccustomed to much attention from men, she had been subjected to the undoubted fascination of his personality. So far from feeling angry at that moment, I felt a great concern for her. I wondered how far she had fallen for Prosset, if at all.

Later, two days later, she was to tell me the whole story of how he had suggested a light meal in his room before setting out; how he had coaxed her into drinking too much, amused her, flattered her, and finally had taken her into his arms, so that although she knew she was being unfaithful she was unable to resist for long the physical attraction of that handsome and magnetic man. I cannot imagine why I did not feel a great anger towards Kate; possibly it was because I knew Prosset so well from personal experience.

Looking at her as she lay crumpled and ill on the bed, I knew perfectly well that I would forgive her. I picked up her spectacles from off the pillow and laid them on the bedside table, and spread the eiderdown over her and went out of the room and downstairs, and drove back to Harrington Gardens.