The Husband's Story (34 page)

She did, however, make an exception for Stan's sake. If he wanted to go down to the bar for a drink he was free to do so, she told him; but only one, she added, because he was driving.

She would not even have suggested the single drink if she had not, quite suddenly, again felt sorry for him. He was so obviously trying to be nice. Otherwise he wouldn't have gone to the trouble of learning to drive a car so that he could take them all away in a hired one, or buying the toffees for the journey, let alone booking them into somewhere exclusive like Pineland for a whole fortnight.

Being sorry for him did not, however, mean for a moment that she was actually pleased with him. Indeed, she didn't see how she could be expected to be. For a start, his whole appearance was so much against him. As he walked away from them in the direction of the bar, she winced: if he had been wearing bicycle-clips the whole aspect could hardly have been worse, and she found it hard to believe that the figure in the worn sports jacket and the thin, baggy-looking flannels really could be that of her husband. She herself had on a light blue Crimplene travel coat and a white headscarf. Her large, shoulder-strap bag – an extra in the Jetset Executive range – was pure white, too.

But Beryl was not really bothering herself about Stan. It was Cliff of whom she was thinking. That breathless, half-suppressed promise that had been forced out of her in the back of the Mustang, parked in one of the leafiest lanes in all Surrey, kept coming back to her. By this time tomorrow Cliff would be there in the Colony with her; next door, for all she knew.

The poignancy of it all proved too much and, putting out her arms, she drew Marleen closely to her. It seemed so dreadful somehow to think that Marleen, too, was a woman – or, rather, would be one day – and might find herself perplexed and agonized like this.

The sadness, the overwhelming sense of tragedy, brought tears to her eyes. Try as she might, they still came. But she was determined not to make an exhibition of herself, not up there on the boat deck of the Lymington-Yarmouth car ferry. Plunging her arm down into the white, outsize shoulder-strap bag, she found her handkerchief. And even those on the seat alongside her can never have known the real reason. Because hugging Marleen so tightly had been a mistake. There was now a long toffee-covered smudge on the light blue Crimplene where Marleen's little face had rested.

Spitting discreetly into the handkerchief, Beryl proceeded to get it off.

Tucked away as it was behind two other holiday camps, Pineland Colony was a bit difficult to find. But as soon as Beryl saw it she could tell that the young man at Swallow Tours had not been wrong. The brightly-coloured gates set in the high stockade, and the Colony's flagstaff with the Colony's flag – the letters ‘PC' surmounted by a feathered head-dress – were proof enough of that.

And inside it was even better. The place had atmosphere. In the centre of the compound stood a totem pole that was also a signpost. And, because the language of the place was White Man's talk, the roughly-hewn wooden arms pointed the various ways to ‘Trading Post', ‘Beaver Pool', ‘Scalps', ‘Pipe of Peace Bar', ‘Medicine Man', ‘Smoke Signals', ‘Trapper's Lodge' and, discreetly, ‘Squaws' and ‘Braves'. The shallow end of the Beaver Pool, the one away from the chute and the diving board, was labelled ‘Papooses only'.

Beryl was pleased, too, with the accommodation that Head Trapper, the Colony's resident superintendent, had allotted to them. Admittedly, there was only a shower in the bathroom, but there was pink bed-linen, and a small fridge as well as a tea-maker in the living area. The name of the cabin was ‘Hiawatha', and Beryl saw this as a good omen because Marleen had been learning the poem at school. There was only one thing that worried her. Marleen had a memory like a computer, and Beryl was more than half afraid that the inscription over the front door might trigger something off.

Stan, for his part, was entirely contented. He was giving the family just the kind of holiday that he had planned for them. For the first time in years he felt adequate. A feeling of immense relief and well-being kept breaking over him in waves, and he more than half wished that Mr Karlin could have been there to see what a difference that bit of extra money had made to things. When he had carried in the bags and moved Marleen's bed away from the wall out of reach of spiders, he sauntered round the place, his camera slung over his shoulders, whistling to himself as he strolled along.

Down here in the Isle of Wight, the afternoon sunlight seemed somehow brighter than in Crocketts Green, and the colours that much stronger. The sun-umbrellas round the pool shone back at him like variegated rainbows as he walked past them. It was then that Stan realized what it was that had been lacking in even his best work.
Hoar Frost on Wimbledon Common
and
In Winter's Grip
might be all right for black-and-white work around Christmas time, but they were not by any means the whole of the art. With Daylight Colour and the correct ASA setting, Stan suddenly saw himself as the new Van Gogh of Koda-chrome. The prospect overwhelmed him and he stood transfixed. Indeed, he stood so long in front of one of the multi-coloured parasols that the woman underneath it finally got restless and demanded to know if he wanted something.

Because it was their first evening there, Beryl decided that she should wear something simple, informal almost, and she made Marleen do the same. It was only Stan that she couldn't do anything about. The trouble with him was that everything he'd got was simple. Even when he'd had a shower and changed out of that terrible sports jacket, he still showed up as plain ordinary. From the look of him, he might have been setting off to catch the 8.10 as usual instead of wending his way through Wolf Wood, already lit by dangling storm lanterns, on his way to the Pipe of Peace Bar, with squaw and papoose following, to taste his first mouthful of fire-water since the three of them had reached the clearing.

Dinner was served by waitresses all in Quaker costume. At nightfall the hungry settlers gathered together in Trapper's Lodge and sat round a big open fireplace exactly as it was shown in the brochure; in the background, too, Muzak was playing softly. It was at once restful and warm; and Beryl was amused to see that all the other dresses were even simpler than her own. She was, in truth, rather looking forward later on in the week to showing the rest of them how a nicely-turned-out
woman looked in the evening when on camping holidays like this one; women with a natural dress-sense, that is.

With all the food and the heat and the soft music, Stan found himself growing drowsy. Drowsy and contented, he felt that he could go on drifting through life like this forever. It was the BBC's nine o'clock news that woke him up. Stan and Beryl had by then moved along to the Tomahawk Lounge at the back of the cabin. That was where the TV was. Marleen had been allowed to go down rather earlier while the big Western was still on. And now they were all together again, one happy and compact family unit, with shared tastes and not a care in the world.

At least, that was how it was until one of the two news readers – the handsome, superior-looking one – suddenly spoilt it for them; and the casual, off-hand way in which he did it seemed somehow to make it so much worse. The Leader of the Opposition, he said, speaking out of the corner of his mouth as though the words were hardly worth uttering, had been denouncing the cancellation of the Leviathan project and was demanding a fresh debate. MPs of both Parties, he added, were in support of the motion.

It was the nervous start that Stan gave that betrayed him. Beryl felt the sharp, unexpected jab and asked him what was the matter. Stan did not reply immediately because he was listening too hard. As it was, he nearly missed the bit that the young man was telling them – still as though it didn't really matter – about how the Speaker had refused to let them have their way, and had reminded the House of all the other urgent business which it had on hand.

Beryl repeated her question.

Even then, however, Stan paused. He knew that he had to be careful and play it just right, not giving anything away but not, on the other hand, appearing to have something to conceal. It was with a little laugh when he did eventually answer her.

‘Oh, just funny to hear him talking about it,' he said. ‘They all come under me, you know – Leviathan, Sting Ray, B24, Cat's Paw. The lot. Might be back in the office again. Makes me feel at home somehow.'

The bit about Stan's feeling at home when in the office did not please Beryl. On reflection, she resented it.

‘That's the trouble with you,' she told him. ‘It's office, office, office all the time. It's all you ever think about when it isn't your photography.
I believe you'd rather be back there at this very moment than down here on the Island with me and Marleen, I do really.'

She had raised her voice a trifle while she was speaking, and the couple next to them had turned to look in her direction; Stan decided that this would be the moment for him to slip away.

‘Just going for a breath of air,' he said. ‘Shan't be long. Don't let Marleen sit up too late.'

Outside, the night was warm and beautiful. Stan felt pleasantly luxurious to be alone in it. He began another of his one-way conversations.

‘You're doing all right,' he told himself. ‘Just keep on as you are, and stop worrying. Don't let little things upset you. Play it cool and take it easy. You deliver the goods. That's all you've got to do. You deliver the goods, and leave the rest to Mr Karlin.' The flicker of a smile passed across his face as he remembered his cleverness, his own downright cunning, and he wondered vaguely what would become of Mr Karlin when the deception was at last found out. But already his thoughts were running ahead of him again. ‘Only six more months of it if I really speed up. Thursdays as well as Mondays from now on. Last batch on the first of December. Then you can sign off forever.' He'd had the timetable all worked out from the very start; knew exactly the number of lunch-hour sessions he would have to put in to finish off the job. ‘Free man by Christmas,' he went on. ‘Don't forget to have your resignation ready. Cash in and clear out. Better start straight away looking round for that new studio of yours. Can't afford to keep them waiting.'

Then the old recurrent fear came over him. Suppose Mr Karlin didn't keep his word, suppose he blackmailed him into going on copying Top Secret things for ever? The threat was so sudden and unexpected that he felt his whole stomach go cold and the palms of his hands become clammy. They were the bad signs, the familiar ones; at any moment now his tremblings might begin. But he managed to control himself. ‘Cool and easy,' he kept saying, over and over again. ‘Cool and easy. Stop worrying. Don't let little things upset you. Just play it cool and take it easy.' And the treatment worked. Little by little he could feel himself relaxing and this time when he had wiped his hands down the seams of his trousers they did not mist up again.

He remained out there in the night air for some minutes longer. Through the trees a tiny chink of the Solent was showing, and there
was moonlight on it. He stood quite still, looking on and admiring. He was calm now; and thinking about what he had already been able to do for Beryl and Marleen, and what he would be able to do for them in the future, he returned to Hiawatha peacefully, and at rest.

Beryl was already in bed when he got back there, and he decided to make his peace with her, too. Something like ‘Sorry, I'm-always-talking-about-that-silly-old-office' was what he felt was needed. Not wanting to put the light on and being careful not to bump into anything, he slid his shoes off and tiptoed over to the bedside. He had just bent over and kissed her gently on the forehead when Beryl sprang up and pushed him away from her.

‘What's the matter with you?' she asked. ‘You gone mad, or something? You know Marleen's just in through there. She'd hear everything.' She was sitting bolt upright by now, and it was her other voice that she was using, her motherly one. ‘You all right, darling?' she enquired. ‘Mummy's here if you want anything.'

The door of the inner room was only some six feet away and the door itself was more than half ajar. Even so, there was silence, complete, stilly silence.

Beryl turned back to him.

‘And you go off to sleep at once,' she told him. ‘The very idea. I never heard anything like it. That's the trouble with you men: you think it's all women are made for.'

She slumped down onto the pillow again, and pulled the bedclothes slowly up round her. Stan could just make out that, from beneath the folds, she was telling him that she would go off on holiday by herself next time, she would really.

This was only partially true. But it was understandable. Beryl had been almost asleep when he had gone up to her; almost, but not quite. She had been in that limbo between sleep and waking when dreams have not entirely taken over and thoughts can still become dreamlike. Already in her dream it was tomorrow. Cliff had arrived in his Mustang some time before lunch, looking just as she always saw him in her mind – well-dressed, well-groomed and sauna-fresh. It had been distinctly gratifying as they had walked together arm-in-arm beside the pool to see how all the other women had eyed him; openly, unconcealedly envious of her. And now the long sunny day had drawn to a close and evening – tomorrow's evening – had come at last. Marleen was over in the lounge watching television, and Stan was away on the other side of
the Island – photographing something or other. For the first time that day, she and Cliff were alone together. Almost by accident, as it were, they had reached his wigwam. Cliff had one hand resting lightly on her shoulder and, in the other, he was dangling the front-door key. The reminder of her promise had been no more than whispered to her, and her reply had been silently to nod her head… That was the moment when, without warning, she had felt Stan's breath upon her cheek and had found him bending over her.