A Disturbing Influence (18 page)

T
HE
bar of the Brunswick Arms was quiet, ten-fifteen and a warm evening, most of the drinkers sitting on benches in the garden, though a few determined dart-players stayed inside and two young men were playing shove-ha’penny.

‘Where’s your dad, Dennis?’ said one of the dart-players, ordering himself another pint.

‘Gone to the pictures,’ said Dennis. He drew the pint generously, letting some of the beer slop into the catch-all.

‘Your go, Jim,’ said David Mander, marking his score in chalk on the board.

Jim was a slight rather stout young man, with small half-closed eyes with long lashes and sleek fair hair. He played clumsily, banging his halfpennies up the board and beyond the marked portion of the polished wood.

The bar was quiet except for the thud of darts and the occasional exclamations of the players. Dennis yawned. He was nineteen, and bored, with a restless dark glance and brown hair that kept flopping over his eyes, to be brushed carefully back and combed with a small black comb he kept in the back pocket of his trousers.

David got up and came over to the bar with the two empty glasses. ‘Two pints, please.’

‘Here you are, David,’ said Dennis. ‘You’ll have to drink them up, though. It’s nearly closing time.’

‘Oh hell. Listen, can you sell me a bottle of something? To take out, I mean?’

‘Whatever you like,’ said Dennis. ‘If we’ve got it.’ He gestured to the bottles behind him, many of them merely empty samples. They didn’t have very much demand for more than whisky and gin and sherry and port, an occasional Pimm’s Number One and sometimes a rum, but not often. The Brunswick Arms lived on beer.

‘Have you got a bottle of Black and White?’

‘That’ll cost you a bit.’

‘O.K. I’ve got plenty of money.’

Dennis took the two pound notes and gave him the bottle and change. ‘Want me to wrap that up?’

‘No, it’s fine like this, thanks.’

‘I wouldn’t like the vicar to catch
me
with a bottle of whisky,’ said Dennis.

‘I don’t intend to let him catch me with it, either,’ said David. ‘There are plenty of places to have a drink without going to the vicarage.’

‘I wouldn’t mind joining you, at that,’ said Dennis.

‘Do you want to?’

Jim watched through his half-closed eyes, one hand tapping slowly on the shove-ha’penny board, a little smile on his lips.

‘Do you mean that?’ said Dennis.

‘Sure,’ said David. ‘You’d better give me another bottle, though.’

‘You can have this one at cost,’ said Dennis, handing it over to him. ‘I’d buy it for you myself, but I don’t get paid till Friday, and Dad’s as mean as all get-out.’

‘That’s all right,’ said David. ‘When you’re finished up in here we’ll be in the car. O.K.?’

‘Thanks a lot,’ said Dennis. He glanced at the clock. It was five minutes fast and said only ten-twenty-nine, but he began to call: ‘Time, gentlemen, please.’

‘Hey, come off it, Dennis,’ said one of the dart-players, ‘there’s another five minutes.’

‘Not tonight there isn’t,’ he said. ‘Drink up.’

 *

Several nights later Henderson waited impatiently and anxiously for his nephew to return from a party. It was long past his bedtime and he felt too tired for what he felt obliged to say. He had been jumpy all evening, Mrs Crawley had told him, and the tension showed in his face.

When David finally appeared he went out into the hall to meet him. ‘Did you have a nice party?’

‘Very nice, thank you. What are you doing up at this time of night, Raymond?’

‘Who did you say you went to see?’

‘The Donaldsons. At Chancelford. I told you.’

‘David,’ said Raymond, trying to find the authority to go with the words, but failing, knowing he was failing, ‘are you sure that’s where you’ve been?’ It was said at last, but so many things had become obscure recently, it wasn’t said as it should have been, it sounded more like a plea.

‘Well, of course! What on earth do you mean?’ David looked astonished and offended, but still somehow mocked him.

‘You go out so much,’ said Henderson, fumbling his hands in his pockets.

‘Well, there’s nothing to do here, you said so yourself. What’s this all about?’

‘I’m terribly sorry, David, really I am. But you know this awful business about Teddy boys down at Hobson’s lake—they’ve been at it again. And Hobson seemed to think it might be you, God knows why—I told him you hadn’t been in last night, and he just jumped to the conclusion …’ His voice petered out completely.

‘What have they done now?’ said David.

‘Oh, I don’t quite understand, something about putting one of those changing places on an island—I really don’t know how. And whisky bottles left about.’

‘It sounds as though it might have been fun,’ said David, smoothly.

‘It’s ridiculous, of course; obviously you have nothing to do
with it, but Hobson insisted it must be you. I’m sorry I even mentioned it.’ But was it obvious, he wondered; the boy was so odd, disappearing off to his friends almost every evening, you couldn’t be sure with him. He was quite capable of being in two places at once. Henderson didn’t dare, for the moment, to look at the boy’s face, which could hide anything and everything without even the courtesy of a disguise.

‘Well,’ said David, ‘can’t I sue him for slander? What on earth does he think I’d be doing playing games down at his poky little lake?’

‘I know, I know. It’s just that when he gets an idea he thinks he’s found the secret of the universe.’

David smiled and put his hand on his uncle’s shoulder, making the older man shrink involuntarily. Henderson hated affectionate gestures. ‘I dare say his brain is going,’ said David, still smiling, ‘melting away under the heat wave.’

‘Yes. Yes, I dare say it is.’

‘You can tell him that from me, if you like.’

‘Well, I won’t do that exactly,’ said Henderson, smiling with relief now that the ordeal was over. ‘But I’ll tell him that you have given me your word that you have nothing to do with the whole business.’

‘Yes, do that.’

‘Well, I think I’ll be going to bed now—it’s long past my usual time. I thought I should tell you, that was all.’

‘Thank you,’ said David. ‘I expect you always get trouble like this in small towns—old men being silly, I mean.’

‘Well, not often. But it does occur sometimes. Miss Spurgeon can be a terrible nuisance at times.’ He stood for a moment, then he said: ‘Good night, David. I’m very sorry about the whole thing. I’ll ring Hobson in the morning.’

‘Good night.’

Henderson turned to go, then remembered and said: ‘I don’t think we’ll be having any more trouble from those people. Hobson
said he’d put a padlock on the gate and a notice saying trespassers would be prosecuted.’

‘That should keep them away,’ said David.

‘I hope so. I really do. It’s such a shame when a quiet little town like Cartersfield is—is
attacked
like this.’

‘Good night, Raymond.’

Henderson went upstairs. Thank goodness the boy had made no attempt at evasion. There was no question about it, Hobson must be getting senile. If a doubt still lingered it was not that David might have been lying about the Teddy-boy business, but that he was so odd. The Donaldsons claimed a good deal of his attention, but he never asked them over to Cartersfield. No, that wasn’t quite true, he’d introduced Jim Donaldson one evening and he’d stayed to dinner. But he was even more taciturn than David, and had left no impression at all. When David did speak it was always to bring out some very strange idea, like that time in the church, upsetting Henderson so much.

He lay rigid in the bed for a moment, reliving the terrible moment of doubt that had followed. He was really a most
disturbing
young man.

*

‘I’m not going out with you again,’ said Ruth suddenly.

He was standing beside and above her, a black silhouette against the intricate moonlit foliage. He adjusted his shirt-tail, tightened his belt, smoothed his hair, apparently not caring about what she had said, or having not heard it. She watched him passively for a moment, then sighed, standing up herself, brushing the loose dirt from her cotton dress.

‘That’s O.K. with me,’ he said, not even looking at her. ‘I’m leaving soon, anyway.’ He squinted at his watch. ‘I have to be getting back now.’

‘You’ve always got things to do,’ she said.

‘Yes.’

‘Don’t you want to know why I’m not going out with you again?’

‘No. Tell me if you want to.’

‘You’re so cold. You never say anything nice. You don’t treat me as if I was a girl at all.’

‘What do you want me to say?’

She didn’t answer. That he loved her, that was what she wanted. Allen always told her that.

‘You want me to say I love you, don’t you?’

She said nothing. He’d started it, not her. She’d only gone that first time because she was so angry with Allen, and she hadn’t meant it to lead to anything. And if this was all it led to she didn’t want any more of it. It wasn’t right.

‘I’ll say it if you want me to,’ said David. ‘But it won’t mean anything.’

‘Say it,’ she said, wishing she hadn’t.

‘I love you.’ It sounded like ‘Pass the salt’ or ‘You’ve got food on your dress’.

She sighed, looking at his blank face. I’ve made him angry, she thought; well, that’s something. A slight furrow, accentuated by the moonlight, twitched on his forehead, then straightened out, leaving a smooth blank surface.

‘Come on,’ he said.

They pushed through the small trees of the wood and came out on the towpath by the old canal. The moon was nearly full,
throwing
sharp shadows behind them and swimming quietly beside them in the still stagnant water.

When they came to the bridge he stepped straight into the blackness and she followed him. He kissed her briskly and so obviously without feeling that she sighed again and said: ‘You’re a funny boy, David.’

‘Yes.’ He lit a cigarette, the flare recoiling from his face as he flipped the still burning match into the quiet water.

‘Are you really going away?’

‘Yes.’

‘Won’t you ever say anything?’ she said, speaking angrily, loudly. ‘Haven’t you got a civil tongue in your head?’

He kissed her hard on the mouth, and she tried to struggle away from him.

‘You
are
an odd one.’

‘It’s been nice knowing you, Ruth.’

‘Won’t you give me something to remember you by?’ she said.

‘Why on earth will you want to remember me?’

‘I don’t know. I might. Haven’t you got a photo you could let me have?’

He laughed. Then he stepped out into the moonlight and took out his wallet, squinting in it for something. ‘Here you are,’ he said, handing her a snapshot.

‘Thank you,’ she said. She did not look at it then, she merely held it in her hand.

‘I have to go now.’

‘All right. Good-bye, then.’

‘Good-bye, Ruth.’

She went up the path and on to the road, clutching the photo in her hand, thinking not of David but of Allen. He must have noticed by now, or he never would, and if he wasn’t going to notice, then she’d start looking around. There were plenty of other boys about. But she hoped he would apologize—he’d been so strange, recently, and if she said anything that could possibly be taken to be a hint, he’d get really mad at her. Well, she’d made it pretty obvious this time: that was why she’d decided it would be the last. And anyway David was so funny.

When she got home she went straight upstairs to bed and didn’t look at the photo till she’d undressed and got between the sheets. It was a very funny photo to give a girl, she thought. He was sitting up in bed with his pyjama jacket open at the neck. It was obviously in a hospital somewhere, because there was a nurse in the picture, too, holding his wrist as though she was taking his pulse, and there
were flowers on the table by the bed, too. He didn’t look ill, though, just the same as he did now, pale but not ill, and that look of mockery which always came over his features when she said
anything
. The nurse was grinning in rather a horrid way. He’d probably treated her the way he’d treated Ruth, just getting her somehow and then not caring about her at all, just using her when he felt like it.

The curtains could not keep out the moon, pressing its face against them like a small child outside a shop, forcing its way through, so that the room was still quite light even after she’d switched off the bedside lamp. She lay with her eyes open, thinking about Allen and why wouldn’t he just say it, say he’d marry her one day. It didn’t matter when, she could wait. If only he’d ask her, she could wait till the cows came home. If only he’d ask her.

Suddenly she got up, switched on the bedside lamp, looked at David’s photograph, his pale face smiling out from the hospital bed with a mixture of contempt for the cameraman and scorn for the whole world and mockery of the girl taking his pulse, and tore it up, neatly, in half, then into quarters and eighths. She couldn’t tear the eighths together, so she tore them separately, until the photo was nothing but a pile of tiny flecks of black and white. Then she went downstairs to the bathroom and put them in the lavatory and pulled the plug. Then she went back to bed again.

*

The padlock on the gate to Brigadier Hobson’s gravel-pit had been sawn through, and the gate removed from its hinges and placed upright, with stones supporting it, at right angles to its original position. The notice which Hobson had put up, warning trespassers that they would be prosecuted, had been defaced and carefully replanted on top of a mound of gravel.

The second changing hut had disappeared, it was thought at first, but, looking across the lake, people saw it on a small island near the first hut. No one could understand how anyone could have moved the two huts, because they were quite heavy and there was
no sign of a raft, but then someone suggested that it wouldn’t be too difficult, all you would have to do was get them into the water and they would float.

A boy swam out to look at it. He waved excitedly from the island and shouted something, but no one could hear. Then he went into the hut and came out with a cricket bat. When he got back to the mainland he said there was a whole cricket-match set up in the hut, and when people asked him what he meant, he said there were stumps and bails and bats and pads and even wicket-keeping gloves all there, and a ball and several protective boxes and batting-gloves, inner and outer, and the score-book. Someone had torn out every page in the score-book, and written something the boy refused to divulge, except in whispers to his friends, on the end-papers.