A Clear Conscience (31 page)

Another pause, then Emily smiled and wrote with animation, the way she always could when describing children.

Helen supposed it had cost Emily some to write what looked like a long letter in the middle of her oh-so-busy life, but since Helen was not mother, housekeeper or any of that herself, simply an observer, she could read her personal mail whenever she pleased, and it did not please her to do so immediately. She had all the time in the world. Even when the letter was accompanied by a peace-offering to make up for Emily's rash judgement, which may well have helped Cath on her way to desperate violence. Helen felt that Emily Eliot did not quite deserve forgiveness and conciliation by return of post. Nor did she want to plough through a missive of family news, designed to charm her. The rest of the letter could wait. So could the gift accompanying it, a small box, soap, perfume perhaps.

I
n the evenings the room seemed to have slipped back
into familiarity with sinister ease. There was extra fluff and a fine coat of gold dust on everything, which Helen could not quite bring herself to clean. No-one else was going to do it, she was quite certain of that. Somewhere, floating around London, there were two sets of keys, Bailey's and Cath's, but she had needed a new lock anyway.

The place was still remarkably different, impressive even. After a few weeks, surfaces no longer quite so pristine, a few spillages and a bit of neglect, she no longer felt the need to wipe her feet when she entered or comb her hair when she passed a mirror. Golden light came in at the kitchen window, twinkled on the slightly smeared wineglass. Dishwasher next. The fridge still panted like a thing in labour and worked with only moderate efficiency, no real problem at the moment, since there was so little in it.

Which would have been why Bailey came to call, homing instinct working overtime, plastic bag in hand as if he thought he could use food and drink as a password after all this time. She saw his feet from the street, wondered what he would do if she let him discover how his key no longer worked and knowing she would not make him wait, waved from the window and let him in.

Scene fifty-five, take five. Balley came in through the front door, tripped on the new carpet, righted himself and made an undignified entrance into the dulcet yellow wash of the living room, dropping the bag. The gasp was not quite one of astonishment, the words used merely the gentler obscenities uttered by someone who has just avoided falling.

‘Christ Almighty. What have you done here? It's all clean. Yellow, is it?'

‘I'm glad you like it,' Helen said. ‘Nice of you to notice. You've seen it before, but I don't suppose you remember. Where've you been?' She spoke as if the absence had been hours, rather than far too many days.

He looked slightly hangdog, turned on his heel and made
for the kitchen. She remained as she was. There was the sound of a cork popping, and more muffled swearing as he searched through reorganised cupboards. Her mood had been desperate, depressed, any kind of self-esteem notable by its absence; now she could feel herself lifting, like a balloon, the beginnings of laughter starting in her throat as she listened So much for pride. Back he came with a tray of glasses, fizzy stuff.

‘What are we celebrating?'

‘We aren't. Yet. And if we do, it'll be because of being alive and halfway sane. There's fuck all outside to celebrate.'

Silence fell. One of the things she had always loved about Bailey was his comfort with silence. It never bothered him any more than it did her, and he needed silence in order to find the right words.

‘She killed him and you fudged it on paper. Is that what you were aiming to tell me?'

He looked up at her in surprise, took a large swig of the wine, and coughed.

‘Yes and no. Well, no, that wasn't what I was going to say first. I was going to say, I think we ought to get married. We'll just lose one another if we don't get married. Only I've got this clock at home, started going at the rate of a day every hour again, and I can't stop it turning round until you do.'

‘You're a liar.'

‘No more than you. You lied to me about Cath being here the day after Boyce was killed. She told me, in the car. For all I know, you've got the life history of a bayonet at your fingertips and you wouldn't volunteer that, either. You would if you thought it was going to lead me in the direction of the right result. Which is not, as I see it, a wretched little cleaning lady with a wretched life to date, being put in prison for doing to her husband what he did to her brother. Even if it could be proved, which it can't.'

She nodded. The affirmation was reluctant, but definite. Two years ago, she thought, I would never have agreed. I have always believed in letting a jury decide. Why did I change? Guilt warps judgement, or is it arrogance? Perhaps we simply grow more
alike, more cynical.

‘I was going to tell you …' she began.

‘Shh,' he warned. ‘Don't. Clean slate from now on, all right? He was off, like a butler, for the bottle. She had large wine glasses; a bottle of bubbly lasted no time at all. Helen fingered the curtains next to her chair. All that effort and expense.

‘I don't think you could live in the same place as me,' she called.

‘I don't think so either. What's that got to do with anything? You can be married and not live in the same place. Bloody royals do it all the time. Provided we both know where the other one is and we get the hell out of it from time to time.'

‘Sounds like a good idea, then. I should have asked you, a long time ago.'

He shot back into the room. ‘Well if that's yes, thank God. I couldn't go through that again. You must be mad, saying yes.'

‘You must be mad to volunteer.'

It was stupid and peculiarly embarrassing to be suddenly close to tears. He brushed the hair off her forehead, kissed the scar, withdrew and grinned his huge grin. She noticed he was trembling.

‘You know, I've been sitting in my poxy flat, driving nails into my head, wondering if I ever get anything right.'

‘Oh yes, you do. It's me who doesn't. I don't do anything right.'

He laughed, a reassuring crow of joy. ‘Who says? Well, you just sit there and be a deep, dark goldmine, then. What do you want for supper? Not yet. Later.'

‘Food would do nicely.'

‘I
could fix you a nice sandwich,' Cath said winsomely to the colonel. ‘We was thinking of doing sandwiches, quality ones, you know. You can get this lovely bread round the corner.'

He shook his head, politely. ‘So sorry about your husband,' he said, for the fourteenth time. He had been saying it in various tones of disbelief for the last ten days, once the penny dropped. The colonel had a particular penchant for widows, even when the newness of their regime in
his watering-hole meant the drinks were no longer free. She was kind to him though, liked the company in the afternoons, she said, made him feel protective and let him nod to sleep in the sun while there was still a chance. Nights beginning to draw in round about now, he told her, as if she had never had cause to discover such a phenomenon for herself. Had he been terribly insensitive to tell her that the grieving time would be over and that one day, she would be able to think of marrying again? He could hear himself saying it, minutes ago, before she offered the sandwich, so he had not caused offence, after all. Busy Lizzies, busy dying. Something new in the window-boxes, heavy-scented stocks. Made him dopey.

Cath eyed him, nodding off. He probably had a bob or two in bricks and mortar, she decided, but, for all that, he was still a shade too old. She could not quite see herself taking off her clothes and showing her scars for this one, sweet though he was, poor old thing. Pretty deaf with it, still a good listener, even while he slept. She needed a good listener who could not hear, patted his freckled hand as his eyes closed.

‘You don't understand, Mr Colonel, sir. You don't really, which is all to the good, 'cos it wouldn't be a tonic for your health if you did. Course I'm grieving. I loved him. Or at least, I sort of loved him. Only there's grief and grief, if you see what I mean. I loved Damien, you see. I loved him to pieces. I couldn't have loved anyone else like that. He gets me pregnant, leaves me in the club, lets me get on with it, I lose the baby and get this sodding great scar. I can cope with that, at the time, anyway, see? Though you can never look at yourself the same way again. You aren't worth shit with a belly like mine. Least, that's what it feels like at fifteen.'

She sipped a Bloody Mary. Two a day of those was more than enough, plenty of Worcester sauce to give it bite, good for a girl. Better than lunch. This glass was cracked, she must remember not to use her muscles in the washing up.

‘My one and only love,' she continued, dreamily. ‘Sends money, comes home, looks after me, gets me the hotel job, and then, he gets me Joe, and Joe loves me. Does he ever? Till he finds out.

Well, he thinks he finds out about me still going round to Damien,
only he daren't say, just hits me. I mean, I didn't mind marrying Joe, because a woman should be married, Damien was right, you've got to put up with it.' So comforting, talking to the colonel. Old men, with old-fashioned values, they understood so much. About respectability, status, all that. Not like these yuppies in the bar.

‘I thought he was doing it for my own good, see? Damien, I mean. But what I couldn't stand was when I came to realise he was just shoving me off. He used to keep Joe in order if I complained; I mean Joe couldn't help it if he couldn't keep his end up and had to fight his way out, could he? He was like that, and he loved me. Would have done anything for me, me for him, too. But when he got worse, and I went round to Damien with bruises, well, Damien didn't like me with bruises. Sodding great scar, yes, but bruises turned him off. And him a champion boxer!'

She let out a snort of laughter. The colonel stirred. Cath picked up the cigar left in the ashtray between them, and stubbed it out fiercely.

‘Dumping me. Used to take me out at least, but the boys were better fun. Dumping me, so I'd stand outside the pub and watch for him and Joe, mostly him. After all he'd done. And all I'd done for him. Wanted to offload me, get rid of me. I was the only one who really loved him, and he wanted … What time is it?'

The colonel moved in his sleep. ‘I'm
so
sorry about your husband,' he droned. Cath seized his wrist, looked at an ancient watch, put the arm back carefully.

‘That's all right, early yet. I used to watch the time when I waited. Had a watch: Joe smashed it. Joe comes out the pub, always earlier than the others in case they leave him behind, see? Comes home that night in two minutes round that track, fit bloke, Joe, but angry, see? Tells me there's going to be a fight, crashes out indoors. Falls fast asleep, he could always do that. I dunno what I thought. Save Damien, I thought, silly fool he was in a scrap. But then when I ran across the park, I saw the tail end of the fight. I saw Damien waltzing away from it scarcely hurt, a bit
out of breath, causing all that fuss for nothing, sitting down by a tree, and then I thought, you bugger, and I knew what I wanted to do. Give him back that scar he gave me, is what. So I did. I loved him. He loved me. Simple. He was doing wrong, dumping me. I couldn't live, knowing that. He'd walk away from me like he did from that fight, leaving everyone else with the scars.'

She patted her own stomach, drew in her breath to flatten it.

‘Course I knew Joe had that bayonet thing in his satchel; he always did, he was so proud of it, I knew where to look.'

She looked at the cigar butt with regret. Smoke would be nice, but thinking of smoking was the equivalent to dirty thoughts and she did not have any of those. Dirty thoughts were almost as wicked as anyone thinking she would steal.

‘Wouldn't stop screaming,' she clicked her tongue in disapproval. ‘Never had any self-discipline. Took for ever and made me sweat, I can tell you. Ever such a noise. Didn't matter; no-one listens round there, I don't even know why Joe woke up to come out and look, but he did. He was quite nice to me, after, ran me a bath; but being nice – being ever so protective, wanting to pretend he did it – didn't last. He really wanted to pretend he did it. I wouldn't let him hide that bayonet, though. I put it in the only place I could think of, a garden. Where else could I put it? Where else was I allowed to go? And I gave Joe his chances, I did, I really did; I wanted him to be like Damien, wanted him to try to be as nice as Damien had been once, when he loved me the way I loved him, but he couldn't. And I couldn't stop loving Damien, even though he was dead. Never lasts, does it?'

‘What?' said the colonel.

‘People being nice to you,' Cath shouted. ‘Do you want that sandwich, or not?'

He was too old. What a shame. Otherwise, he would have been ideal.

D
uring the course of the night, the wind blew. Helen had forgotten to undo the grille which covered the bedroom window. The sound of the wind was reminiscent of a wild animal
rattling the bars. About that time, they got up and ate scrambled eggs. Supper had been bypassed; once there had been fading daylight to hide the sudden, self-conscious nerves. Now it was dark. Autumn had begun to blow against the panes.