The Husband's Story (12 page)

Carefully, so as not to disturb the rest of the magazine, she tore out the supplement and put it in her desk. Later on that evening, after Stan had told her his news of course, she would get it out again and show it to him. So far as possible, she liked him to share in all her long-term planning.

But Stan had really done it this time. He had missed the six-thirty-two as well.

It was only partly his fault. After all, the gates on Platform 4 had been closed in his face and, simply to make something to do, he had walked across to the station buffet and ordered himself half-a-bitter. Half-a-bitter can't take anybody very long to drink; and Stan had a full thirty minutes in hand, remember.

He had actually left the bar with quarter of an hour to spare, when he turned back. That was because he had started trembling again. Quickly making up his mind, he decided that he needed something to settle his nerves. Beer was no use this time; too much of it. So, expensive though it was, he asked for whisky. By now, the barmaid knew him by sight and gave him one of her bright, barmaidish smiles of recognition. Then, to his surprise, Stan heard himself say: ‘Make it a double.' In the ordinary way, whisky was something that Stan never drank. He didn't even know which brand to ask for, and didn't particularly like the taste of any of them. But tonight it seemed that he needed it.

And the stuff seemed to work all right. There was no denying that. He could feel it going down inside him, powerful and fiery. In between gulps he breathed out rather noisily, opening up his lips every time like a goldfish; and undeniably the whisky had done him good.

It was so obviously just what he'd needed that he ordered himself another one. The trembling by now had ceased altogether. He said good night to the friendly barmaid and left her there against the background
of bottles. It came, therefore, as something of a shock to find that the seven-two had left nearly five minutes ago.

This time, however, he was taking no chances. He sat down on the station seat nearest to the barrier, his eyes fixed on the departure board. He was first at the barrier when he saw the name ‘Crocketts Green' come up on the indicator, and he walked practically the full length of the platform so that he would be right for the exit at the far end. The rush-hour was already over, and he had the whole compartment to himself. This was just as well, because by now he was rehearsing what he was going to say to Beryl; rehearsing it over and over again, out loud.

It didn't seem like Crocketts Green when he got there because there were none of the regulars around. The station had a shut-up, gone-out-of-business look; and it was the same all the way home. Just street lamps and empty pavements. To keep his spirits up and give him the inner strength that he was needing, he began to hum. The music came first, and then the words. By the time he had turned into Kendal Terrace he was not humming any longer. He was singing. Softly, but audibly, he was in full song. The refrain was ‘Firm but gentle, that's the slogan', and he was endlessly chanting that one line to the tune of ‘Men of Harlech'.

The catch on the gate of No. 16, normally so simple to operate, had turned stiff and awkward this evening. He had to joggle it repeatedly up and down before he could hear the familiar click that he was waiting for. And, on the front step, he stumbled. Another few inches, and he'd have been clean through the glass panel over the Spanish grille.

But, now that the moment had come, he felt perfectly calm. Calm and forceful. He had stopped singing, and had composed himself. With his key in his hand, he paused long enough to make sure that his tie was knotted properly. Then he went inside.

‘Wherever have you been?'

The words reached him before he'd even time to close the front door. And he detected the note of impatience.

‘Coming, dear,' he told her.

‘Do you know what time it is?'

He did not answer immediately. He would have liked to explain about how he had missed lunch, and about the uneaten hamburger and how he had gone back into the buffet only because he hadn't been feeling well. But he wasn't sure that, without some kind of introduction to it all,
she would understand. He was still wondering what to say to her when she spoke again.

‘Well, do you?' she repeated.

She had come out into the hallway by now, and was facing him. What she did not know was that he was having trouble with his overcoat. One of the sleeves had turned itself completely inside out and, even when he did at last manage to struggle free, the whole thing came slithering off the hook as soon as he hung it there.

By now she had noticed how flushed his face was. He might have been running a fever, sickening for something. Rocking slowly back and forth on his heels, he stood there staring at her. Then, without warning, he began. He was speaking very fast, as though he had wound himself up and then suddenly released the spring. He was indistinct, but unstoppable.

‘Now I just want you to listen to me,' he told her, ‘and I don't want you to interrupt. I don't want you to interrupt either of us. I've got something to say to you, and I want us both to listen very carefully. Because what I'm going to say is important. Estremely important. That's why I don't want any interrupting. Just no interruptions at all.' He made a sweeping, scythe-like gesture with his hand as he said it, and the effort nearly unbalanced him. But he kept straight on. ‘I was on the short list. And then they never even had one. No short list at all. They just did it – like that.' He tried to snap his fingers to show her how, but there was no strength left in his hand: his thumb and forefinger merely slid over each other. ‘So we've got to go on as we are. Erzackly as we are. No change. Nothing different. Everything the same as before. The way it's always been. That's what I'm telling you.'

Beryl had not moved. She was standing quite still, her arms folded across her bosom, regarding him. And letting him go on. It would be something to remind him of forever.

Stan, however, had already finished. He had no more strength left. That long speech of his had finally exhausted him. He was now conscious only of a strange floating feeling, an up-and-down, drifting sensation as though he were ballooning. Pushing his way past her, he went through into the lounge and stretched himself out upon the couch.

‘Iss not your fault, dear,' he said, his voice fading gradually away as he was speaking. ‘Iss nobody's fault. But iss too late to essplain things now. Mush too late. We're both of us very, very tired. Esstremely
tired. I'll tell you all about it in the morning.'

Then he closed his eyes and went to sleep.

It was just after one a.m. when he woke up. He had a headache, and the inside of his mouth felt dry. But his mind was clear enough. It all came back to him. The bad news. The drinks. The trains that he'd missed one after another. Everything that he wanted to forget. Until the very moment of his homecoming, that is. All that he could remember about that was how the sleeve of the overcoat had turned itself completely inside out and how the overcoat itself had kept sliding off the hook every time he went to hang it up.

He tidied up the couch, and turned the lights off. Then, very quietly so as not to disturb anyone, he made his way upstairs. He tried the bedroom door handle, but it was no use. Beryl must have turned the key on the inside. But Marleen's door was open. And, though the bed had been slept in, it was empty now. Evidently Beryl had taken Marleen in with her.

Then he noticed something else. It was his bedroom slippers and pyjamas in a heap on the floor outside the dressing-room. They looked as if they'd just been flung there.

The name of Mr Miller's successor, the outsider who had come up from nowhere and beaten Stan at the finishing-post, had just been announced in the Staff Gazette. Mr Miller called Stan in specially to show him. And he had gone to some trouble over it. Using his felt-tip pen he had enclosed the entry in a pair of thick, black brackets to make it stand out better.

‘Well, there it is,' Mr Miller said as he handed the paper over to him. ‘That's the one. Now you know as much about it as I do.'

It was all set out clearly enough: ‘
Senior Officer (Records), Frobisher House'
the paragraph ran.
‘Mr Anthony Parker (Administration), Admiralty, Whitehall, to succeed Mr R. J. Miller (retiring). Effective, 1st July, 1965.'

‘Anthony Parker'; Stan began repeating the name to himself, pulling down the corners of his mouth as he did so. It was a perfectly ordinary name, the sort of name that would slip through any directory unnoticed. But already Stan found himself disliking it. The more he said it, the more aloof and superior it sounded.

But already Mr Miller was speaking again.

‘Not to worry,' he said reassuringly. ‘If it doesn't work out, you can always apply for a transfer. There shouldn't be any difficulty about that. Not with your record, there shouldn't.'

Stan felt a sudden little tremor run through him. The muscles of his stomach contracted and went slack again.

‘D'you… d'you think it'll come to that?' he asked.

Mr Miller was cautious.

‘Hard to tell,' he replied. ‘Won't be the same, of course. Not like it has been. Different approach altogether. Business School training. All very modern. May suit you, or it may not. Just have to see how the two of you get on together.'

But that only made it worse. Much worse. Because Stan could see that Mr Miller was warning him; and being very careful to be nice about it. What he was really saying was that if the new man stepped up the pace a bit he doubted if Stan could take it. Stan found himself
beginning to doubt it, too. And this was ridiculous, because only last month he'd been thinking about one or two quite important changes of his own that he'd be introducing as soon as he was really in charge of the place.

An altogether new fear had come into his mind.

‘How old is this Mr Parker?' he enquired.

Mr Miller tapped on the desk with his pencil before replying.

‘About your own age,' he said. ‘Bit younger, in fact. Not much in it. Only a month or so.'

That piece of information left Stan in pretty low spirits; the very lowest of the low, in fact. He now felt despondent about everything. And, if it was like that in Frobisher House, it was worse still back in Kendal Terrace. Ever since the night when he had made that disgraceful exhibition of himself, Beryl had hardly spoken to him. If he said anything to her, she didn't seem to hear him; at any rate, didn't answer. And, if he went through to the lounge when she was there, she promptly got up and went out. She was even careful to take Marleen with her, too, if the child happened to be anywhere around at the time.

It was the deliberate erection of this shield around Marleen that Stan found particularly hurtful. And he could see that it was having its effect. During the long silences at meal-times, she had taken to eyeing him. She had large, expressive eyes, and the look that had come into them lately was one of brooding incredulity. Knife and fork held in mid-air, she kept inspecting him. ‘Get on with your meal, Marleen,' Beryl would say, without looking up from her own plate while she was speaking. ‘We don't want to have to sit here all day, do we?'

What with being ignored by his wife and stared at by his daughter, Stan couldn't help feeling uncomfortable nearly all the time.

Then, on the Thursday, two days after the Gazette had appeared, something nice happened; something really nice, and entirely unexpected.

Stan was on his way home at the time. Gloomy and downcast as ever, he was back in Cannon Street rather wishing that he could find some excuse for missing his train again. And it was just as he came out of the exit from the Underground that, quite accidentally, he ran into Mr Karlin. Or rather, Mr Karlin ran into him. Mr Karlin was going down at exactly the moment that Stan was coming up. They collided.

It was clear that Mr Karlin was in a hurry. He muttered a quick
‘Pardon' as he tried to push his way past. Then he stopped suddenly, and turned.

‘Isn't it Mr… Mr Pitts?' he asked, searching round in his mind for the surname.

Stan had stopped short, too. He would have recognized that soft, grey-flannel voice and that Continental-style raincoat anywhere.

‘Mr Karlin.'

The steps of the Underground were no place for trying to carry on a conversation. But Mr Karlin seemed to have forgotten all about the hurry he was in. He was holding out his hand in welcome.

‘Well, isn't that extraordinary?' he said, his big, smooth face pink with excitement. ‘I was just thinking about you.'

He paused and looked round him for a moment.

‘What about a drink?' he asked. ‘Somewhere we can talk. Then I shan't have to write you a letter.'

Stan glanced up at the station clock. It was all right. He was on the early side tonight. He could afford to let the six-two pull away without him. And he was certainly curious to know why Mr Karlin should have been going to write to him at all. Even so, he was cautious. Extremely cautious. He couldn't afford to have things go wrong a second time.

‘Well, just a quick one,' he said.

As they went into the bar, Stan was afraid for a moment that the barmaid would remember him. And he didn't want Mr Karlin to think that he was one of the quick-nip kind. But he need not have worried. The barmaid was working away at high speed, like a lady-conjurer, too busy with her glass-and-bottle tricks to spare a smile for any of the audience.

‘What'll you have?' Mr Karlin asked.

‘Half a bitter,' Stan told him.

Mr Karlin, it appeared, was not a hard drinker, either. He ordered two half-pints, and then moved away from the bar so that others could get served. There were some pretty impatient ones among them, too; they might just have come in from the Sahara they were so thirsty.

‘Cheers.'

‘Good luck.' It was Mr Karlin who had wished it. ‘It's about that photograph of yours,' he said. ‘The one that got first prize. Cherry blossom, wasn't it?'