“We’re getting a bit senile,” he said and she went out to the garden and began to turn the compost with a fork.
She stayed outside for hours and Filth had a try at preparing supper and broke one of the Delft dishes. They had a wakeful night in their separate bedrooms and were only just asleep when the rooks started up at dawn.
“I’m going up to London next week,” he said. “There is a Bench Table at the Inn. I can stay overnight with someone or other.” (They had long since given up the flat.) “Or we could go together. Stay at an hotel. See a show.”
“Oh, I don’t think so . . .”
“You’re getting stuck, Betty.”
“No, I’m making a garden. We’ll open for Charity next year.”
“I don’t know what you think about hour after hour. Day after day. Gardening.”
“I think about gardening,” she said.
“Well,” he told Dulcie in the lane, “I suppose this is being old. “All passion spent”—Shakespeare, isn’t it?” and Dulcie pouted her pink lips and said, “Maybe.”
After Filth had set off to London, Dulcie went round and found Betty, brown as a Gypsy, busy with the first pruning of the new apple trees.
“Does that gardener do
nothing
?”
“He does all the rough.”
They sat over mugs of coffee on the terrace, staring down the wandering lawn towards the new orchard and out to the horizon and Whin Green. Dulcie said, “Are you sure you’re well, Betty?”
“Fine, except for blood pressure and I’ve always had that.”
“You don’t say much, any more. You seem far away.”
“Yes, I’m a bit obsessive. I’ll be going on gardening outings in coaches before long with all the other village bores. Look, I must get on. I’m working ahead of frost.”
“Who are those people in the garden?”
“What people?”
“I saw some children. A boy and a girl. And a man.”
“Oh, yes. It’s a garden full of surprises.”
One day, deep beyond the meadow grass, beyond the orchard and the apple hedges, on her knees and planting broad beans, she saw two feet standing near her hands. They were Harry Veneering’s.
“Harry!”
He was delighted when she shrieked.
“I’ve found you, Mrs. Waterproof! I heard Filth was up in London. Thought you might be lonely.”
They had lunch at the kitchen table and he drank a whole bottle of wine (Filth would wonder!) and made her laugh at nothing. As ever. He mentioned his father.
“Does he know you’re here?”
“No. I’m a grown-up. I’m going bald. Anyway, we’re not getting on too well, the old showman and I.”
“Oh? That’s new.”
“No. It isn’t. He thinks I’m rubbish. He’s thought so for years.” He took a flower from a jar on the table and began to pull it to bits. He kicked out at a stool.
“Harry! You may be losing your oriental hair but you’re still eight. What’s wrong?”
“I’m supposed to be a gambler.”
“And are you?”
“Well, yes, in my own small way. He’s always bailed me out. Now he says he won’t. Not any more.”
“How much?” she asked.
“Never mind. I didn’t come for that.”
“Of course not,” she said, watching him. Now he was picking at a pink daisy.
“Stop that!”
“Oh, sorry. Well, I’d better be going.”
“How much do you want?”
“Betty, I have not asked. I’d never ask.”
“How much do you owe?”
He slammed away from the table and looked down the garden. “Ten thousand pounds.”
Then he pushed past her out of the back door and disappeared.
In time she went and found him smoking in the dark alley where she had first arrived at the house, leaning against the great chimney breast. He was in tears.
“Here’s a cheque,” she said.
“Of
course
I couldn’t!”
“I have a lot of my own money. It’s not Filth’s. I spend most of it on the garden. If I’d had children it would all have been for them. I’ve not had a child to give it to.”
He hugged and hugged her. “Oh, how I love you, Mrs. Raincoat. How I love you.”
“Come. You must go home now. You’re a long way from London and it’s a nasty road. I’ll walk with you to the car.”
“No, it’s all right. Oh, thank you, so very, very much! Oh, how I . . .”
“I’ll just get a coat.”
“Don’t. I’m fine.”
But she insisted and they walked together down the drive and up the hill towards the church.
“I’m just round this corner,” he said, “and I’m going to hug you again and say goodbye. I’ll write, of course. At once.”
“I’d like to wave you off.”
Very hesitantly he walked beside her round the side of the churchyard to where his car was parked. It was a Porsche.
“You don’t get a thing for one of these second-hand,” he said.
W
hen the Porsche was gone she turned for the house, stopping quite often and staring at the familiar things in the lane. Loitering gravely, she nodded at the old Traveller in the hedge, busy with his flail. (He must be a hundred years old.) He stopped hacking at the sharp branches and watched her pass and go towards the front door.
Inside it on the mat lay a letter which must have been wrongly delivered somewhere else first because it was grubby and someone—the Traveller?—had scrawled
Sorry
across the envelope. It had come from Singapore to her, care of Edward’s Chambers. Though she had scarcely seen his handwriting—once on the card with the pearls so many years ago—she knew that it was from Veneering.
There was a half-sheet of old-fashioned flimsy airmail paper inside signed
THV
and the words:
If Harry comes to see you do not give him money. I’m finished with him
. She threw it into the wood-burning stove. Then she went into the garden and began clearing round the new fruit trees, toiling and bashing until it was dark.
“Hello?” Filth stood on the terrace.
“You’re back! Already. There’s not much for supper.”
“Doesn’t matter. London’s all eating. Come in. You can’t do much more in the dark.”
“I’ve made a vow today,” he said. “I’ll never work in London again. I can do
Hudson
just as well at home, with a bit of planning of references. I am tired of London which means, they tell me, that I am tired of life.”
“Possibly.”
“Which makes me think that you and I ought to be making our Wills. I’ll dig them out and revise them and then we’ll make a last trip to London, to Bantry Street, and do the signing.”
“All right.”
“Could we go up and back on the same day, d’you think? Too much for you?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
And he began to make meticulous revisions to his Will and appendices of wishes. Did she want to read it? Or should he look over hers?
“No, mine’s all straightforward. Most of it to you and Amy. If you die first it will all go to Amy’s children.”
“Really? Good gracious! Right, we’ll get on with it then. Take three weeks—getting the appointment and so on, I’d think. We want everything foolproof.”
So the appointment was made for 3.30
P.M.
, on a November afternoon, which was rather late in the day for the two-hour journeys, one up and one down. The new young woman at the firm was excellent and therefore very busy. Never mind.
But getting ready on the day took longer now, even though shoes were polished and all their London clothes laid out the night before. Betty had seen to it that their debit cards and banknotes, rail cards, miniature bottle of brandy (for her dizziness) and the tiny crucifix left to her by Mrs. Baxter were all in her handbag, along with the pills for both of them (in separate dosset boxes) in case for any reason they should need to stay overnight.
Filth was still upstairs, fighting with cufflinks, Betty, ready in the hall, sitting in the red chair, and the hall table beside her was piled up with tulip bulbs in green nets. They had smothered the telephone and Filth’s bowler hat. There’d be a roar about that in a minute. (“Where the hell—?”) She fingered the tulip bulbs through their netting, thinking how sexy they felt, when the telephone began to ring. She burrowed about under the bulbs to find the receiver and said, “Yes? Betty here,” knowing it would be from a nervy sort of woman at her Reading Group that afternoon. Betty had of course sent apologies weeks ago.
“Yes? Chloë?”
“Betty?” It was a man.
“Yes?”
“I’m in Orange Tree Road. Where are you?”
“Well, here.”
“
Exactly
where?”
“Sitting in the hall by the phone. On the satin throne.”
“What are you wearing?”
“Wearing?”
“I need to see you.”
“But you’re in Hong Kong.”
“No. Singapore. I need to see your face. I’ve lost it. I have to be able to see you. In the red chair.”
“Well, I’m—we’re just setting off for London. Filth’s putting on his black shoes upstairs. He’ll be down in a minute, I’m dressed for London.”
“Are you wearing the pearls?”
“Yes.”
“Touch them. Are they warm? Are they mine? Or his? Would he know?”
“Yours. No, he wouldn’t notice. Are you drunk? It must be after dinner.”
“No. Well, yes. Maybe. Did you get my note?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t tell you in it that Harry was given a medal. Twice mentioned in despatches last year. ‘Exceptional bravery.’ Northern Ireland.”
“No!”
“Hush-hush stuff. Secret service. Underground sort of stuff.”
“Should you be telling me this?”
“No. He never told us at the time. Very, very brave. I want to make it absolutely clear.”
“I believe it. I hated your letter. I saw him about a month ago and he was miserable. He said you thought he was rubbish. He didn’t ask me for money. Terry? Terry, where’ve you gone?”
A silence.
“Nowhere. Nowhere to go. Betty, Harry’s dead. My boy.”
Filth came down the stairs, looking for his bowler hat.
In the London train Filth thought: She’s looking old. An old woman. The first time. Poor old Betty, old.
“You all right, Betty?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes seemed huge. Strange and swimmy. He thought, She must watch that blood-pressure.
He saw how she looked affectionately at the young Tamil ticket inspector who was intent on moving them to a cleaner carriage in the first class. She was thanking the boy very sweetly. “Perfectly all right here,” said Filth, but Betty was off down the aisle and into the next carriage. Silly woman. Could be her grandson. Still attractive. You could see the bloke liked her.
At Waterloo they parted, Filth to lunch in his Inn at the Temple, Betty he wasn’t sure where. The University Women’s Club right across towards Hyde Park? Whoever with? And why was she making off towards Waterloo Bridge? The solicitor’s office was in Holborn. He watched her almost running down the flight of steps, under the arches and over the maze of roads towards the National Theatre. Still has good legs, bless her. He stepped into a taxi.
Betty, at the National Theatre, made a pretence of eating lunch, pushing a tray along in a queue of people excited to have tickets for
Electra
in an hour’s time. She headed for the foyer (Harry is dead) and got the lift up to the open-air terrace where there were fire-eaters and mummers and people being statues and loud canned music played. (My boy Harry.) Beside her on the seat two young lovers sat mute, chewing on long bread rolls with flaps of ham and salad hanging out. When they had finished eating they wiped their hands on squares of paper and threw the paper down. Then in one simple movement they turned to face each other and merged into each other’s arms.
She decided to go at once to Bantry Street. If she walked all the way she would arrive just about on time. On Waterloo Bridge, once she had climbed the steep concrete stairs the crowds came down on her like the Battle itself. She kept near the bridge’s side, sometimes going almost hand over hand. People in London move so fast! (Harry is dead.) Some of them looked her over quickly as they passed, noticed her pearls, her matching coat and skirt. The silk blouse. The gloves. I’m antique. They think I’m out of Agatha Christie. (Is dead!) My hair is tidy and well cut, like the woman . . . the woman in . . . the woman like my mother in the hairdresser in Hong Kong. The day the crowds of shadows were to pass me in the night towards the house in the trees.
He is dead
.
At the Aldwych she felt dizzy and found a pill in her handbag and swallowed it, looking round to see if by any chance Filth was anywhere about. He’d be in a fury if he couldn’t find a taxi. He’d never get a bus. He wouldn’t much care to walk. No sign.
Oh, but why worry? He always could find taxis. He was so tall. Taller still when he brandished the rolled umbrella. He’d forgotten the bowler hat, thank goodness. It was still under the tulips. The last bowler hat in London and my boy is dead.
Here was Bantry Street and there, thank God, was Filth getting out of a taxi and smiling. The driver had got out and was holding open the door for him. Filth looked somebody. His delightful smile!
But it was the last smile of the day. On the next train back to Tisbury they sat opposite one another across a table in a determinedly second-class carriage. Betty was pale and Filth sat purple in choleric silence.
The solicitor had not been there! She had children ill at home and either had not remembered or the firm had forgotten to cancel the appointment. And at the reception desk—and the place looked like an hotel now, with palms in pots—they had not even seemed apologetic.
“
Salisbury
,” he said, after an hour. “We’ll take the damn things into Salisbury to sign. Perfectly good solicitors there and half the price.”
“I always said so.” Betty closed her eyes. (Harry.)
“It is a positive outrage. I shall write to the Law Society.”
(My boy, Harry.)
“We are, after all, no longer young.”