The Watchers on the Shore (35 page)

'What are you doing here?'

'I'm a friend of Miss Pennyman's.'

'She's gone. She doesn't live here any more.'

'I know. I was just looking to see if she'd left anything behind.'

He's watching me as if he thinks he ought to call the police.

'How did you get in?'

I hold up the key. 'With this. It's one of hers. Who are you,
anyway, might I ask?'

'I live down below. I look after these flats. I saw the light from
the street.'

'You'd better have this, then,' I say, walking towards him and holding out the key.

He takes it from me, standing aside to let me by. I walk out while
he's still weighing it up, probably having dark thoughts about
actresses and strange men with keys.

I live off wounded pride for some time after this. She shouldn't have done that, treating me like a child who can't be told the truth to his face and be expected to take it reasonably. Why should I run after her to London? What's in it for me? It's the full-scale banquet I want, not the crumbs from her table. Conroy lends a sympathetic ear when I pour most of it out over a pint one night and doesn't offer me useless advice or say I told you so. It helps a bit, I think, and we don't talk about it any more after that.

When Ingrid suggests coming down again I let her. She comes on
the Friday night and I meet her at King's Cross and take her out to
Longford, managing to drop into the conversation on the way the
fact that she won't be meeting Donna because she's gone. She
doesn't react openly to this but it must be welcome news and she
can only be pleased. Conroy's as good as his word, running us round
the town on Saturday morning. We have a look at a couple of new
developments, the prices on the signboards making Ingrid gasp.

'Four and a half thousand for these poky little places! Honestly,
Vic, it's daylight robbery.'

'That's the way it is down here. And like Albert says, you buy
and sell in the same price range, so it doesn't make much difference
in the end.'

When we're ready for lunch Conroy suggests running out of
town and of all places he has to take us to the Coach and Horses,
where Donna and I spent our last evening together. I don't know
where we're going till we're nearly there and it's too late to get out
of it. Conroy hasn't seen Ingrid for years and she never cared much
for him when we all worked at Whittaker's. Now they've taken to
each other straight away. Albert seems to be able to tune straight in
on Ingrid's wavelength in away I never could and she responds with a
spirit I haven't seen in her for a long time. There's no doubt she's
looking as attractive as she ever did and there'd be many who'd say I'm a lucky bloke to have her. I sit at the table, letting them
talk, answering when I have to, but most of the time keeping quiet
and missing Donna in a way that's almost like mourning for her.

Two days later I try to telephone but get Fleur who tells me that
Donna's away for a few days. We have a bit of inconsequential chat
and she asks after Albert who she hasn't apparently seen for some
time. I tell Conroy this.

'I thought you'd be hopping into town at every available opportunity.'

He grunts. 'I haven't bothered. It was funny, but once she'd gone
I somehow didn't care any more. A case of out of sight, out of mind.'

Just like that. Easy. And there are no other considerations
stopping him. It gets me on thinking how wanton attraction is;
how the world, which is short of love, is full of people loving in the
wrong places at the wrong time. The great life force striking indiscriminately through all the barriers and restrictions, and
causing as much misery as hate.

I try phoning again a week later and get no reply. If only I could
snap my fingers and erase her from my memory. If I could treat it
like a sickness and take a course of pills. Is hypnotism any good?
Will time do the trick if I hang on long enough? Time does in fact
begin to have some effect because during the next few weeks the
pattern of wanting her changes gradually from a continuous
almost unbearable longing to a consistent mild depression that
goes off the deep end every day or two and plunges me into bouts
of misery so bottomless and black I feel sure I'm on the edge of
cracking up. It's in one of these attacks that I give in and admit I'm
beaten. I've got to see her. It
doesn't matter if it's not very often. It
doesn't matter if I can't make love to her even. Just seeing her,
talking to her, holding her hand in a pub, maybe; I'll settle for that.
And when Ingrid comes down for good, well, I'll think of something. I'll find a way.

I set off straight after work one night, armed with an A to Z street guide, catching a train to Liverpool Street and transferring to the Underground there. It's a station I'm sick of the sight of; that and King's Cross. Which is quicker: change at Tottenham Court Road for Belsize Park or Oxford Circus for Finchley Road? I settle for Finchley Road. Just let me get there quick. It's nearly two months since I've seen her. I have to concentrate to see her face clearly in my mind.

Once off the main road at the other end I'm in a maze of curving
avenues of big houses that I'd be hopelessly lost in without the guide.
There are cars parked along practically every foot of the kerbs.
Gascoigne Gardens. Here. It's beginning to rain. Number fifteen.
Three bells. Royd on top, Lister below, Dunham in between. Press and wait. I'm here, Donna. I love you and all is forgiven.

In a moment there's a shadow looming behind the glass. The
door opens. It's Fleur.

'Hello, Fleur.'

'Vic .. . Come in.'

I step into the hall and she shuts the door.

'Is it raining?'

'It's just starting. Is Donna in?'

'You'd better come up.'

I follow her shapely behind in tight tan trousers up the stairs
and into the living-room that's sparsely furnished with a square of
carpet and a few pieces of furniture. The fried-egg picture hangs on
one wall.

'Did you ring up earlier?'

'No.'

'I wondered. I came in as the phone was ringing but it stopped
before I could get to it.'

'Isn't Donna in?'

She's got a queer look on her face now but it's hidden as she
bends to pick up cigarettes, the mane of red hair falling over one
eye. We both take cigarettes and go through the business of
lighting up.

'I'm afraid you've missed her.'

'Oh hell, what a shame. Will she be late back, do you know?'

'She's gone home.'

'What, to Cornwall, you mean?'

'Yes.'

'When's she coming back?'

'I don't know.'

'Well, she is coming back, isn't she?'

'Not for some time, I don't think.'

'Is there something wrong with her or something?'

Fleur gives a queer little shrug and pushes back her hair with
one hand. Suddenly her eyes are closely watching my face.

'She thinks she's pregnant.'

I'm speechless. My mouth must look as if it's saying 'But... but ...only no sound comes out. They talk about history repeating itself, but this is ridiculous. I look behind me for a chair and sit down. Then I finally manage to say 'Oh Christ.'

The next one is one I should see coming but don't. First the feint
with the left and then the right jab, rock hard and brutal, straight
to the heart.

'I don't think she's told him yet.'

'Who?'

Who? Carter. Who else?' Her eyes are still on me. 'Didn't you know about them?'

'I... I knew that... before ...'

'I thought that was why you weren't seeing her any more.'

'You knew about us?'

'Yes, of course I did. You hadn't a price, Vic. She couldn't
promise you anything with him around. She's been mad about him
for years. When he came out to Longford it stirred it all up again.'

'That was why she couldn't make her mind up about the play.'

'Yes. And then the swine has to go and make her pregnant. I told
her to get rid of it and make him pay. A friend of mine knows a
place. A private nursing home. Clean and safe. A hundred guineas
and no comeback. But she wouldn't listen. Said she'd go home and
have the baby, if there was one, and try to sort herself out.'

'She isn't sure?'

'She's practically certain. I must say it looks like it to me.'

'Oh God, what a mess. I mean, what about her career and every
thing? All those parts ...'

She's just recorded another play. The other things fell through.'

I can't think straight. My mind's numb with shock.

'Will they get married, do you think?'

'I don't know.' She shrugs again and sits down across the room
from me, smoking in short nervous puffs.' It didn't work out when they were together before so I don't see what difference a wedding
ring will make.'

'But the baby... and Donna's parents.'

'Donna's people aren't Victorian tyrants. They won't turn her out of the house.'

'God, what a mess,' is all I can think of to say again.

'It's all happened before, and it'll happen again.'

'You're right there.'

She uncurls herself and gets up.

'Would you like a drink? I expect you feel like one.' She crosses to a corner cupboard-cum-bookcase. 'I can't offer you any beer but there's some gin and some tonic to go with it. Oh, and a drop of sherry.'

'Gin and tonic, please.'

It's not my favourite tipple but it'll do for now.

'What about you, then? What are you doing now?'

'Oh, I'm all right. I'm doing commercials for bath soap.' She poses with one hand lifting her hair at the back. 'I sit around
dressed in bubbles all day and get well paid for it. It's much easier
than acting.'

She pours the drinks and hands me mine.

'Drink it down ... It's not the end of the world, is it?'

'It feels bloody near, Fleur.'

'But you hadn't known her long.'

'It doesn't take long, love.'

She's having his baby, carrying it. I wish, I wish to God it was
mine. A spasm of jealousy seizes me, so ferocious that I actually
tremble and the glass shakes in my hand.

'You hadn't a chance, you know,' Fleur says.

'I didn't try hard enough,' I tell her.

I gulp at my drink. It tastes sour and strange, setting my teeth
on edge and making me shudder.

'I'd better go,' I say in a minute. 'You'll probably be wanting to go out.'

She shakes her head, the thick glossy hair catching the light.

'No, I had a date but it fell through. I was going to have a quiet
evening watching the telly, but you can take me out for a drink if
you want company.'