Time to Say Goodbye (43 page)

But when the May blossom starred the hawthorn hedges, Will began to lose heart, for it seemed to him that Imogen spent her days mooning around the house doing almost nothing, and when he came home it was to find her listless and apparently indifferent to his hopeful chatter. He went off to work as he had always done, walking to the station and catching the train to town, but Imogen stayed at home, made no attempt to find a job as she had promised, and no longer came to meet him at the station. She still slept on the sofa and – Will could tell – spent a great deal of the day in tears. She missed Ida, who had had to take other work during Imogen’s long absence, but refused to try to find another charlady, telling Will that they could not afford it until she was earning again, but adding that in any case she did not want another woman interfering in her house.

When she said this, Will saw her look round and pull a face. For the first time perhaps, Will thought, she must have realised how she had neglected their little home. Dust was thick on every available surface, and clothes lay in untidy heaps, for Imogen insisted that her possessions must not go up the stairs any more than she would herself. Unwashed dishes and pans encrusted with partly eaten food were piled up on the draining board, waiting for Will to deal with them, and wet clothes dripped from the airer which Will festooned with washing and hauled up to the ceiling in bad weather, drying in the warmth from the Rayburn and the living room fire.

Will cleared his throat awkwardly. It was so difficult to gauge her mood, to be understanding, never critical. ‘I can see you don’t want anyone to come into the house just now . . . but it’s only surface dirt. If we work together we can get it respectable . . .’ he began, but was swiftly and ruthlessly interrupted.

‘It’s quite all right; you needn’t try to spare my feelings. But I don’t need any help. It’s about time I flicked a duster round. When I’ve done that, if I decide
I
need a charlady –
if
, Will – then
I
shall employ one. I’ve not touched the money in our post office savings book so I could pay her with some of that . . .’

‘Oh, darling, I’m sure if you had some help . . .’ He stopped speaking as his wife brushed past him, going through the back door and slamming it behind her.

Will sighed and went over to the sink. He pumped cold water into the kettle and stood it on top of the Rayburn. You fool, you said the wrong thing again, he accused himself. He glanced through the window and saw that the rain, which had held off while he walked up from the station, was beginning to fall once more. She won’t come in again until she’s cooled down, he thought. I ought to do a caveman act and go out and fetch her, but it would only make her furious. Oh, how I wish I could talk to Ida, persuade her to come back, explain . . . but I’d be accused of interfering and that would be another black mark against me.

The kettle began to whistle. Will carried it over to the sink and poured its contents into the bowl, then began to wash the pots. When Imogen came back indoors she said nothing for a moment and then picked up a tea towel and began to dry up. After a minute she said awkwardly: ‘Sorry I was cross. By the way, when I was in the post office the other afternoon Mrs Grindley mentioned her books again. I said I would give her a hand with them.’

The remark gave Will hope that things would improve, so a few days later when the plumber appeared in his office with three sketches of nice, modern bathrooms which, he said, would fit easily into their spare room, Will was delighted. Things had seemed easier at home ever since Imogen had begun to do a little housework and he decided he must stop being such a ninny: he would show her the sketches and see if they might lure her into climbing the stairs.

He glanced out of the window of his office and saw bright buds bursting into leaf and pale sunshine falling on the frail petals of a big pot of primroses. This was central London, he told himself; how much lovelier were the primroses and violets on the mossy banks of the lane which led to Farthing Cottage. Spring was supposed to have a softening effect on the heart; how much he hoped it would work its magic on poor, unhappy little Imogen.

Will glanced from the scene outside to the sketches in his hand and decided to leave work early. He would buy Imogen some chocolates and some of the wine she liked and then he would produce the sketches. He knew she missed the luxury – and convenience – of a bath and decided to add a bottle of bath salts to his other purchases, then called his secretary through to advise him on where best to buy these delightful presents.

He took Miss Gibson’s advice and soon found what he sought. The bath salts were pink and fragrant, the chocolates soft-centred, the wine sparkling; he added a chiffon scarf in palest blue, her favourite colour, and as he waited on the platform that afternoon his hopes were high. Surely she would see his only desire was to please her, to make her understand – and reciprocate – his love for her!

He caught an earlier train and as it approached the station he thought how lovely it would be if Imogen were to be waiting for him. He could imagine her pleasure in his gifts and thought how they would walk home, sharing the chocolates, holding the wine up to the spring sunshine, even opening the bath salts to sniff them as they walked. And then, when she was laughing, he would bring the sketches out of his pocket . . .

She was not at the station, of course; why would she be? She had probably forgotten all about the promised bathroom. Buoyed up by hope, however, he burst into the kitchen. Imogen was sitting at the kitchen table, idly scanning the pages of the church magazine, a monthly affair which was no doubt filled with exciting information about village life. She looked up as he entered and gave him a tentative smile.

‘Hello! Shall I put the kettle on? You’re early, aren’t you?’

‘I managed to catch the earlier train. I’ve got you . . . here . . . it’s your favourite colour; I saw it in a shop window . . . and some wine, and chocolates too!’ He produced the wisp of chiffon and handed it to her, saw her eyes soften, and put the chocolates down on the table between them. ‘I thought . . . look, the plumber’s sketches have arrived. Do you remember me telling you . . .’

Without warning, Imogen jumped to her feet. She snatched the sketches from him and crumpled them in her hand, not even looking at them. When he protested, said she was not giving the man a chance, she said coldly, ‘We talked about converting the scullery into a bathroom, if you cast your mind back. If you make the second bedroom into a bathroom, where will our visitors sleep? Or do you intend to keep me a prisoner here, never seeing anyone but you?’

The unfairness of the remark was like a kick in the stomach, and for a moment Will was so astonished that he simply gaped. Then he responded, his voice rising as he did so. ‘How dare you say such a thing? I’ve begged you to let me bring friends home, people from my office, even villagers like dear old Ida or that fat woman who never stops talking, and you’ve never once agreed.’

‘They aren’t my friends,’ Imogen began, but Will was thinking of all the lonely nights when he had lain in his bed, longing to hear a step on the stair, the creak of the bedroom door as Imogen crept into the room, and ignored the remark. He thought of the clutter in their living room, a clutter of clothing and possessions which Imogen wanted to keep to hand instead of putting upstairs, where they belonged. He thought of the back-breaking spring work of digging, manuring and planting the garden, all done by himself and without one word of praise – of acknowledgement even – from his wife. He thought of the expensive food he had bought to try to tempt her appetite which she had pushed round her plate and then emptied into the bin. Then he thought of the meals which awaited him each evening: beans on toast, cheese on toast, poached egg on toast. He had never complained, not even when he finished eating and then had to tackle the washing up alone. In fact, Will was suffering as much from the strain of examining every word before he let it escape from his lips as from the fact that he was doing the work of two people at home on top of his job in the insurance office, and now the dam was about to burst.

He began to detail the tasks he had done, unhelped by so much as a word or a look, but then he realised she was not listening. She was justifying her behaviour, blaming him for doing everything, so that she was idle not from choice but because he had greedily taken the work for himself, and suddenly Will’s patience snapped. He crossed the kitchen in a couple of strides, grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her as hard as he could, and as he shook, he shouted. All the worries and frustrations of the past weeks were voiced aloud for the first time. He reminded her that she was his wife, that she had made promises – promises in church furthermore – that she clearly had no intention of keeping . . .

And as though his anger had lit a flame within her, Imogen began shouting too. She said that all he wanted was a housekeeper, or did he expect her to do the heavy digging which would be needed to turn the pasture land into a market garden?

‘Oh, very funny, when you can’t even be bothered to wash up the pots at the weekend when I – I, Imogen Carpenter – have cooked a proper meal,’ he yelled. ‘I’ve done my best to please you, I’ve worked as hard as any man could, doing your jobs as well as my own, but that’s all over, you lazy little madam! You said you didn’t want to be treated as an invalid; then stop behaving like one. And we’ll start by
both
of us going upstairs and comparing the sketches with the little bedroom.’

He moved to grab her wrist but she hit his approaching hand as hard as she could, snatched up the crumpled sketches and threw them into the heart of the fire. Then she dusted her hands together, as though ridding them of a noxious touch, and threw herself down on the sofa. He saw the tears begin but from the look on her face he realised they were tears of anger. ‘Get out and stay out,’ she shrieked. ‘I hate you, Will Carpenter!’

He crossed to the sofa and grabbed her, hustling her towards the stairs, but she fought back, kicking and biting, her fingers curled into claws, and suddenly he knew he had to get out, get away, or they might both do things they would bitterly regret. He let go of her and she hurtled back to the sofa, burying her head in the cushions whilst he stood looking down at her. He saw the white nape of her neck, somehow defenceless and childlike, and knew that trying to talk things out when they were both so angry would not be a good idea.

The anger which had flared when she threw the sketches into the fire suddenly seemed excessive, unnecessary. He was ashamed, wished it had never happened, yet he knew that, like a volcano, he had simply had to erupt, to voice the feelings of frustration and unhappiness with which he had lived for so many weeks.

He bent down and touched her shoulder and felt the immediate rigidity of rejection, but nevertheless he spoke. ‘Imogen? I’m going away now, since that seems to be what you want. I’ll leave it a couple of days, a week perhaps – I’m sure you can manage that long without me – and then I’ll come back and maybe we can discuss the situation like two sensible people and not like a couple of wildcats. Imogen? Did you hear me?’

A tiny sigh came from the crumpled little figure face down amongst the sofa cushions and for a moment Will had to fight an urge to take her in his arms. He thought of all their other fights – and there had been many in the early days of their marriage – but such fights had been partly in play, always resolved. ‘Kiss and make up’ and ‘never let the sun go down upon your wrath’ had been the happy principles by which they had run their married life. How had it all come to this?

‘Imogen, did you hear what I said?’ Will repeated. ‘I’m going away for a while. Did you hear me?’

When she did not reply or acknowledge in any way that he had spoken he felt a renewal of his anger beginning to build up and knew he really must get out, could not afford to let the quarrel flare once more.

He was halfway to the back door when it occurred to him that he would need a clean shirt, his washing kit and his pyjamas. He addressed the slim figure still face down on the sofa. ‘Imogen? I’m going upstairs to pack a few things, all right?’

No answer. Will sighed and headed for the stairs. It didn’t take him long to pack an overnight bag, though he ended up filling their big suitcase with almost every garment he possessed. Why not? He was suddenly filled with the horrid suspicion that after he left she might go upstairs and either hurl his possessions out of the window, to lie on the half-dug ground until he reclaimed them, or stick them in the Rayburn.

As he came quietly down the stairs again, he was aware that he was half hoping to find a tearful but repentant wife awaiting him. If he had, he would be the first one to kiss and make up. But when he reached the foot of the stairs he saw that she had drawn a chair up to the fire and was leafing through a women’s magazine, and paid him not the slightest attention. When he told her that she could contact him at the office if she needed anything, she gave him a look so cold and disdainful that he shot out of the kitchen, slammed the door behind him and slung his suitcase on to the back seat of the Rover.

He reflected that Imogen had the post office savings book, so would not lack money. He decided he would return to Farthing Cottage in two or three days and not a moment before. He would bring with him something easy, like fish and chips, and hope that they might discuss their situation over a meal. He thought – or rather, hoped – that two or three whole days and nights alone in the cottage, with no one to wash the dishes and put them away, no one, in fact, to come should she call, would be enough to bring her to her senses.

Having settled in his mind that Imogen would not lack for money he realised, abruptly, that he had very little cash on him. He had a season ticket for the train, of course, but he did not much fancy a night spent in the waiting room or curled up on the back seat of the car. If he went to a friend they would naturally want to know why he was suddenly homeless and would inevitably conclude that there had been a quarrel and his wife had thrown him out. However, he had a cheque book and he knew his bank balance was healthy, so he could afford a couple of nights in a bed and breakfast.