The Jealous One (18 page)

For long, black minutes Rosamund’s rising horror struggled with what she still tried to call common-sense. Out of the past months, one episode after another arose, bright, black, and clear, like silhouettes against the
uncomprehended
blur of her conscience. The moments when she had hated Lindy most—and had forced herself to speak brightly and kindly. The moments when hopes of Lindy’s death had been clear and vivid in her mind—and she had forced
herself
to smile…. All these repressions and deceptions, could they have risen in revolt at last … and then could her
horrified
consciousness, in its guilt and terror, have blacked out the memory of that culmination of her hatred?

‘They’ would say it could, undoubtedly. ‘They’ would say that amnesia is invariably the mind’s final refuge from intolerable guilt.

Suddenly Rosamund longed for some really silly person, like Carlotta perhaps, or Norah, to ring on the doorbell at this very moment, and come in and chatter to her about inhibitions and guilt-complexes and such: the kind of
person
who, in a few brief, earnest sentences, can make you
know
that psychology is all nonsense.

But the person who did ring the doorbell, at about nine o’clock, was no amateur psychologist to chatter reassuring claptrap about hidden drives. On the contrary, it was Walker.

‘He’s upstairs doing his homework,’ said Rosamund at once, obligingly saving Walker the weariness of opening his mouth and asking for Peter: and silently, evasively, as if outwitting an enemy sentry, he darted past her and up the stairs to Peter’s room. Peter’s voice sounded for a moment; he seemed pleased and surprised; and then the door closed and the sound of voices was quenched.

It was too quiet, too deathlike, and Rosamund could not feel at ease anywhere in the whole house. Not in the sitting room, where her husband’s unhappy quietness hovered round her like an accusation; nor in the bedroom where it was too early to go to bed; nor in the kitchen where the washing up was all finished and there was nothing left to do.

Driven by the stillness, Rosamund began to contemplate going in next door, to the darkened house where Lindy was no more. Perhaps, after all, it
wasn’t
darkened now?
Perhaps
Eileen was home already? She’d said she intended going straight after work this evening to visit some elderly relative who just
might
have some knowledge of Lindy’s whereabouts, but she might have changed her plans; the relative might have been out, or away, or something. And at least, at the very worst, there would be Shang Low there, barking disagreeably, breaking the doom-laden silence,
demanding
to be taken for a walk. Even that would be better than nothing.

Yes, very much better. Decidely reassuring, in fact,
because
you couldn’t imagine a
murderess
taking a dog for a walk … wandering slowly, peaceably along the winter roads,
bidding ‘good evening’ to the neighbours … pausing for a chat with this one … enquiries after the health of that one … sharing a good-natured smile over Shang Low’s
obstinacy
as he dragged her towards this lamppost or that.
Besides
, the neighbours wouldn’t
be
like that if she were a murderess. They would see it in her face, even if they were not consciously aware of what they saw … they would hurry on, with a single uneasy word, if she stopped to greet them … they would glide past on the other side of the road … they would whisper uneasily together…. Yes, her walk with Shang Low would be a test, it would
prove
that
everything
was all right.

In picturing this imaginary walk which was so smoothly and effortlessly to prove her innocence, Rosamund was beginning to forget that her original plan had been to call on Eileen if she was in; so it was with quite a shock that she saw, as she emerged from her own front gate, that there was a light shining in Eileen’s upstairs room.

Well, that was all right. That was what she had hoped for in the first place. All she had to do now was to go up the path and ring the bell.

Yet for some reason she was trembling, assailed by an extraordinary sense of embarrassment, almost as if she was wearing some sort of fancy dress. She felt, as she stood hesitating in the dark garden, as if she didn’t belong here at all—had no right to go and ring that bell: just as you might feel if you were returning to the neighbourhood after long years away, wondering if people would still recognise you….

And for one terrible second, it seemed that Eileen did not. Her blank, stricken face seemed to confirm every fear,
fanciful
or real, that had been seething in Rosamund’s brain ever since this evening’s revelations. But almost at once, Eileen’s expression changed—or rather, Rosamund recognised it for what it was—simple disappointment.

‘Oh! Oh, Rosamund. How nice.’ You could see Eileen adjusting herself to the new, unexciting situation. ‘Do come in, won’t you?’

Her tone was not enthusiastic, but Rosamund nevertheless
accepted the half-hearted invitation; and as soon as she had her visitor inside the front door, Eileen began to seem a little more welcoming. Having recovered from the first shock of disappointment, she was no doubt beginning to feel that Rosamund might be better than nothing as
company
.

‘Come up to my room, will you?’ she urged. ‘I’ve got the gas fire on. It doesn’t seem worth while keeping the sitting room going when … That is…’

For one ridiculous second Rosamund felt Eileen’s
embarrassment
as an accusation: as if Eileen was laying at
her
door the chilly desolation of the sitting room. But she knew really that such a notion was absurd…. She hastened to dispel the uncomfortable atmosphere engendered by Eileen’s evasive phraseology and her own headlong
interpretation
of it.

‘No, of course not. And it’s so cosy, isn’t it, living in a
bed-sitting
-room, you don’t have to turn out into a cold room to go to bed. Any news?’

There was no hypocrisy in Rosamund’s eager question, even though she felt that she already knew—and intended to keep to herself—far more than Eileen could possibly have to tell her. Yet somehow she was still eager to hear Eileen’s ‘news’, just as a child may be eager to hear a bedtime story, however nonsensical, to sustain and comfort it through the long dark night.

‘No. Not really. But somehow, tonight, I
do
feel a little bit more hopeful,’ said Eileen surprisingly, settling her visitor in the only armchair in the small bedroom, and turning the gently-hissing gas fire as high as it would go. ‘I found that Auntie Min was away, you see, and so—— Would you like some cocoa, or something?’ she interrupted herself
awkwardly
, a little ungraciously, as she recollected her duties as hostess—usually so capably taken over by Lindy. You could hear in her voice what a nuisance it would be to have to stop the story before it began, and go down to the kitchen and mess about with saucepans and jugs. Rosamund thought it would be a nuisance too, so she hastily declined, and Eileen,
greatly relieved, continued: ‘and anyway, I didn’t really think Auntie Min could know much, we haven’t seen her for ages. But as I came away—as I was waiting for a bus—it suddenly occurred to me that there is one possibility that none of us have mentioned. The more I think about it the more likely I think it is, it cheers me up no end. Though perhaps—I don’t know—perhaps I shouldn’t expect it to cheer
you
up? Perhaps I shouldn’t tell you—I don’t want you to be upset….’

She laughed, an embarrassed little sound, and looked at Rosamund enquiringly. Rosamund felt irritated. When people embarked on this sort of apologetic preamble it was never really to save you being hurt: it was just to save them from feeling responsible for it.

‘Well—go on. Tell me!’ said Rosamund rather sharply. ‘After all, nothing could be worse than…’ But of course Eileen didn’t know yet
what
it couldn’t be worse than.

‘Yes! Of course! I hoped you’d take it like that!’
exclaimed
Eileen in over-hasty relief. ‘It’s just that—well, you know Lindy was—is—very fond of your husband, don’t you?’

‘Well, it did cross my mind,’ said Rosamund drily. ‘And so?’

‘Oh, not in any
bad
way,’ Eileen rattled on, flustered. ‘I mean, she wouldn’t dream of breaking up a happy
marriage
, nothing like that….’

‘She wouldn’t?’ Rosamund simply couldn’t help it. The sarcastic little phrases slipped from her throat as
involuntarily
as hiccups. Eileen raced on: ‘So I wondered—you see, I’ve known about the way she felt for some time—I couldn’t help it, being so close to her—but I didn’t know if
you
knew, or even if your husband did. Lindy hides her feelings so
very
well, doesn’t she? And I wasn’t even sure if she was right about the way she thought
he
felt—I mean, he’s such a kind man, isn’t he, I thought sometimes that perhaps Lindy was mistaking his kindness for … Well, anyway, that’s why, when he asked me that night if I knew any reason why Lindy should be—worried—I didn’t know what
to say. I didn’t like to tell him, in case he didn’t know, but of course she
was
worried, she must have been, about the way
she
felt, and about not knowing how
he
felt…. And then, when he said she’d sounded
scared
… it quite frightened me when he said it…. I began imagining all sorts of things…’ she glanced at Rosamund quickly and uneasily, then went on: ‘But now I begin to feel that it may all be much simpler than we think. It may be simply that Lindy felt that the situation was getting—well, she may have felt that the only way to prevent it going too far was simply for her to disappear. Just as she has done, without telling
anyone
, without leaving an address or anything—to give herself a chance to sort out her own feelings? Something like that?’

Eileen’s eyes looked wide and childlike, full of
uncertainty
and hope. Confronted by all this youth and naïvety, Rosamund suddenly felt herself very old and powerful; the possessor of all kinds of secret knowledge, whereas Eileen was merely the poor little dupe. For all these reasons she must be very gentle in disillusioning Eileen. Yet even as she opened her mouth to speak, she knew she couldn’t be gentle.

‘I think Lindy’s feelings were perfectly sorted out all along,’ she said levelly. ‘She knew exactly what she wanted. And how to get it.’

Eileen sensed the hostility at last.

‘Oh, you’re not being
fair
to Lindy!’ she cried. ‘No one is! People think she’s just man-mad—a husband snatcher—that sort of thing. But she
isn’t.
She’s just the opposite really!’

Rosamund recalled Basil’s hints to this effect the other night. Her bitterness was replaced for a moment by
curiosity
.

‘How do you mean?’ she asked, as she had asked Basil. ‘Do you mean it’s all put on, this
femme
fatale
act?’

‘Oh, not
put
on
!’ protested Eileen, bristling up defensively on her sister’s behalf. ‘It’s more that she’s honestly worked on herself over the last few years—tried to make herself more attractive—and what’s wrong with that, anyway?’ She turned on Rosamund belligerently, although Rosamund
had said nothing. ‘It’s what all women do, in one way or another!’

‘Well, of course,’ agreed Rosamund mildly. ‘Naturally. We all do. It’s just that—with Lindy—she seems to
devote
herself to it so—so sort of non-stop. And it seems rather surprising that she should
need
to go to all that trouble. I’d have thought she was attractive enough anyway.’

‘Oh—well, yes, of course she is,’ said Eileen hastily. ‘But you see, you never knew her the way she
used
to be. You’d understand better if you had. You should have known her—seen her—as she was five years ago. Believe it or not, she seemed quite middle-aged then, she really did. Even I noticed it, and so did my school friends, they used to treat her exactly as if she was one of the mothers. She was
terribly
shy, I realise now, and never went out anywhere, or had any boy friends; she had no idea how to dress—and I never remember seeing her wearing make-up, or with her hair done any fancy way—nothing. But of course, I realise now, it wasn’t her fault; she’d never had a chance. She’d had me to bring up, you see, ever since our parents died … it made her get into the way of acting middle-aged—being a housewife, you know—before she’d ever had the chance to be young! Can’t you understand?’

‘Yes, of course.’

Rosamund was speaking mechanically. Understanding formed no part of her thoughts at this moment. All she could feel was a rising and totally unexpected fury at this new light on Lindy’s character. Just like Lindy! she found herself thinking furiously: she has not only stolen my husband’s affection, but now she has got to be pitied for it as well! I’ve got to feel
sorry,
now, for this poor, shy, plain creature who had to struggle so hard to make herself
attractive
enough to destroy my marriage! I’ve got to admire her pluck—understand the struggle she’s been through! Well, I won’t, I just won’t, I don’t
want
to understand her, ever; and if I haven’t murdered her already, then I damn well
will,
the very next time I lay eyes on her! And there’ll be nothing subconscious about it, either: I mean to enjoy it
this
time!

Were these the sort of thoughts that would go through the mind of a
real
murderess? Surely not! All the same, Rosamund was dismayed by the violence of her own
emotions
—disproportionate, surely, to the immediate
provocation
? She tried to analyse them as best she could, and
discovered
that part at least of the motive force behind them consisted of a ridiculous feeling that Lindy had deliberately suffered a frustrated girlhood in order to make it wickeder than ever of Rosamund to have murdered her. The
absurdity
of this train of feeling—you could hardly call it thought—sobered her; she strove to recover some sort of
equanimity
. Natural curiosity came to her aid.

‘What made her suddenly change?’ she asked.

‘Oh, but don’t you see? As soon as
I
was off her hands, as soon as she didn’t have to feel responsible for me any more—why, then she at last had the chance to be young! But by then she was past thirty, and of course, at that age, being young is something that has to be
learnt,
it doesn’t just happen any more. It made me so happy to watch her
beginning
to experiment with her hair; with different sorts of lipstick; learning to be amusing, witty, and to talk about the sort of things that interest men. Oh, I understood just how it was for her—but no one else ever did, not even Basil——
Oh
!’

Eileen broke off in mid-sentence, and the look in her eyes as the door swung open made you feel that she was already leaping up; rushing across the room with arms outstretched. It was quite a shock to find that she wasn’t; that she was still sitting on the divan, neat and tense.

‘Hullo, Basil,’ she said in a tiny voice, making no move towards him. He, too, made no move; just stood in the
doorway
, looking at her; and Rosamund wondered if he was aware of his power. She wondered, too, what should be
her
rôle in the situation. Should she just get up and go straight away, and leave them alone together?