When I Was Otherwise (28 page)

To Daisy this was plainly so irrelevant it dispelled all trace of satisfaction. He was sorry to see it disappear.

“How should I know? I can't say I faithfully record their every movement—even when I'm up to snuff, which at present,” she reminded him, “I most certainly am
not
!”

But Andrew's enquiry had not been without purpose. He'd been waiting to hear footsteps hurrying down the stairs; footsteps informed by either annoyance or trepidation or bemusement.

Daisy added sharply—but fatuously; people in love could sometimes say
extremely
foolish things—“In any case, you can't possibly sleep there!”

“No, of course not. I was wondering if anyone was going to unbolt the door to admit the landlord.”

“Well, obviously you were. Who
isn't
wondering that?”

“Because if nobody does, couldn't I slip out at the back while he's still waiting round the front?”

“And afterwards what do you think is going to happen to me?” Her question took him by surprise; he could only repeat his currently pervasive thought.

“But what does it matter? We'll soon be getting married.”

“Ha!”

“What do you mean—ha?”

“Have you
any
idea how long a divorce would take?” Not merely her tone but her whole demeanour had returned to being businesslike. He couldn't understand it.

Yet he managed to reassure himself. She isn't well and for the moment she's confused.

“I shall start proceedings first thing in the morning,” he promised her. He hesitated; he wasn't sure if the rider he was going to add was altogether decent. “I might be able to find grounds.”

“Really? And have you told Marsha what you intend?”

“Not yet. Not in so many words.”

“Well, now. You don't take
many
people into your confidence—do you, Aguecheek?” The nickname brought comfort, even if her tone was still severe. And then, as though it had only needed this little crumb of comfort, he suddenly saw why she was angry with him.

“Of course! You think that my presence here will compromise you? Yes! What a fool I've been! I'll go downstairs at once and open the front door. They'll see then there wouldn't have been time… I'm sorry,” he repeated. “Oh, I've been a fool!”

“Yes,” said Daisy. “You have.”

His hand was already on the doorknob.

“And I would urgently recommend,” she added, “that when you get home you don't say anything of all this to Marsha.”

“But I shan't be going home. Why would you think so? I plan to spend the night at a hotel.”

“I can only hope you haven't already let something slip? Some reference to me, I mean?”

“No. No! How could you suppose—?”

“What I'm supposing is…the pair of you…you must have had a quarrel.”

“A small one,” he conceded.

“Then go home and patch it up.”

“What!”

“I said go home and patch it up.”

“But you can't believe
that's
why I've asked you to marry me: a silly quarrel between Marsha and myself?” And, on the instant, he realized afresh what the problem was. He saw she was being noble.

She confirmed it by her next words.

“I am not—I am
not
, nor ever will be—a home wrecker!”

“No, you're not; clearly you're not! This would have happened anyway. I've told you: we're not suited.
You're
my type of woman. You're the only person I want to be with.” Again that gleam of satisfaction—even of delight—
almost
, of victory! “Daisy, there's nothing in this world I wouldn't do for you!”

“Go home, then.”

“Yes. Your reputation.”

He smiled.

“I'll spend the night in a hotel. Tomorrow I'll find myself some lodgings.”

“I don't care what you do tomorrow. Or even what you do tonight. I would advise you, though, to trot off home. Far cheaper!”

“Well, it's certainly true we've got to think sensibly about our future but—”

“Not
our
future,” she said crisply. “
Yours
. And, Andrew, you must never return here again. Never. Don't even try to phone me. I need your promise.”

“What?”

“Besides, I shan't stay here much longer; it's intolerable.” She gave one of those special snorts which he had never heard from anybody else and would have found peculiarly unpleasant if he had; in
her
it had always seemed quite charming. “And after tonight I don't suppose I'll really have the choice, anyhow. One week, I'd say, at the outside.”

His hand was still on the doorknob. He glanced at it in some surprise, as though he couldn't follow the workings of his own body parts any more, never mind the continuing complexities of Daisy's arguments.

“I know you won't be here much longer. We must obviously find you somewhere else. But if I'm not going to be allowed even to telephone…” He shook his head, in bewilderment. “You see, Daisy, I wouldn't want you telephoning
me
—well, I mean, not too often. Miss Eggling would soon read into it some hint of scandal. And then of course, being a woman, she would gossip.”

Fleetingly he wondered—this hadn't crossed his mind before—how the Colonel and Mrs Quinn might react when the news of it finally reached them.

“Aguecheek, you still don't understand.”

She touched him on the arm. This was the first instance of any physical contact since he had got there.

“I am not a home wrecker!” she repeated. “And anyway, Andrew, you're a nice boy but I'm afraid I don't love you.”

There was a long silence. On Andrew's part—a shocked and disbelieving silence. But it didn't occur to either of them that all the battering at the front door had stopped. That there were no more bells being rung. No further shouts of fury.

“But do you really mean it? It isn't simply you've decided to become a martyr?”

“Me—a martyr! No, heaven forbid!” She gave a shudder.

“I see,” he said slowly.

“But you really are a nice boy. Good companion. We've had a lot of fun together; a lot of happy times. Nice dinners and intelligent conversations. And you're an excellent guide on the racecourse; we mustn't forget that.”

“Yet that's all? That's absolutely the sum of it?”

She pursed her lips and nodded.

“I see,” he said again. “What will you do now?”

“Now?”

“I mean, if you can't stay on here? Or if you don't want to?” He had a vague tenacious hope that if he only went on talking she might change her mind. Or that somehow he had merely got hold of the wrong end of the stick and things would sort themselves out, reality would return, the fog would lift. In just a minute or so she would suddenly break down or weaken; admit that, no, she couldn't live without him; explain her silly, well-intentioned motives. All would be well again.

If not—what would he do?

He couldn't just leave.

He had been so happy in the street.

“Oh,” she said, casually, “there's some woman I know. I might well move in with her. It's been on the cards, you see, for years. Literally for years.”

How many, he wondered. He himself had known Daisy for about three. “You've never mentioned it,” he said.

“No. I couldn't make up my mind. Not until now. Yet all this may have helped.” She paused. “She's older than me—much older. But she's a good woman…sane and steady and serene. I feel I might even profit by her influence!” Daisy chuckled; tonight her chuckle had scarcely been in evidence. “You may believe that or not,” she allowed.

“It sounds a little dull to me.”

“Yes, but
she
isn't dull at all. Despite her age and her serenity. Perhaps that's the truly incredible thing. The Italians have a word for it,” she said.

“Oh, yes?”

“I can't think what, though.”

They would never return to that little restaurant. He realized now how terribly much it had meant to him.

“Her name's Marie.”

Clearly she was being sincere. He must just stop fooling himself. There could be nothing left to say.

No point in hanging on.

He remembered their jubilant, suspense-filled day at Doncaster—it appeared so very long ago: the way they had lunched on the train; had meant to play chess but never quite got round to it; had drunk to the man who'd backed into her car the previous afternoon.

“Well then,” he said.

Unexpectedly she reached up and pulled down his head. She kissed him on the cheek.

The only other time she'd done that was at the moment Daisy's Lot had passed the winning post. Then she'd thrown her arms about him, too. In retrospect it seemed the consummation of their love.

No, not of
theirs
. Only of his, apparently. Only of his.

They heard the slamming of car doors—at first, almost without realizing they did. The ringing and the knocking was resumed.

“Open up! Open up! This is the police!”

The voice came through a megaphone and was appalling in its clarity.

“Attention, please! We are ordering you to comply in the name of the Law! Failure to do so—”

But Daisy didn't wait to hear further.

“Quick!” she snapped. “Yes! You go out the back.
I
shall open up in front!”

“No,” he protested.

“Yes!” she exclaimed. “
Yes
!”

This was reinforced. The voice on the megaphone renewed its warning. But now with a difference.

“Attention! Mrs Daisy Stormont! We are instructing you to open up, please! In the name of the Law! The police are presently outside!”

“There,” she said. “
There
! You see!”

Triumphant.

And by this time she had actually pushed him from the room—was virtually propelling him downstairs—although the full focus of her verbal energies was now directed at the front door.

“All right, all right! Just hold your horses; I haven't got wings. I'm on my way!”

The hammering didn't cease.

“
Coming
!” They were halfway down the stairs. “If you can't hear me,” she cried, “it's your own fault. And, besides, you may damage your eardrums. I'm giving you fair warning.”

“But, Daisy, what are you going to tell them?” Andrew asked. “I can't let
you
take all the—”

“Oh, never mind that. I'll think of something.” Her whisper was imperious—in fact it was a whisper only in relation to the recommendations she was making to those on the front doorstep. “They'll have no idea what's hit them, I promise you.
Coming
!” she called.

“But I can't. I can't just leave you to—”

“If you spoil things, Aguecheek, I shall never forgive you. I can't stand a man who acts like a mealy-mouthed twerp. I don't prize nobility; I prize sound common sense.”

So it seemed he had no alternative. It was she who unlocked the back door at the end of the tiled passageway. “
Coming
!” she called again—flung it back over her shoulder—hoping to cover the sound of the key being turned.(Annoyingly, the knocking had stopped once more.)

It was she who shoved him out into the dark.

“Good luck, my friend!”

“Thank you, Daisy. I—”

She shut the door. Relocked it. Slipped the key beneath the mat.

He heard her shout: “Oh, for heaven's sake! Have a little patience! I've stubbed my toe. Quite probably it's broken.” He heard the swift addendum: “I may be forced to sue!”

In spite of this, he was sure they must have heard the grating of the key, the closing of the door. Anyway you'd suppose they would have anticipated such an exit? He'd half expected to be met by pairs of waiting arms.

Arms uniformed blue and dressing-gowned red.

He had expected, at the very
least
, to hear the thud of running feet.

And he wouldn't have cared about it either, not in the slightest. That's how he'd prepared himself; and he had really thought he'd meant it.

But as soon as he realized there
wasn't
in fact anyone waiting for him, that they all appeared to be still at the front, his instinct for survival reasserted itself. From one back garden he clambered over the fence into another; and from that into the one beyond; equally unmindful of torn trousers or of any minor damage to flowers and fencing. More lights; more opened windows. A further barking dog added his own chaotic mite; other barking dogs at once responded. But even as Andrew made good his escape he was aware of the sound of voices raised in altercation; and amongst them he was sure that he heard Daisy's. He prayed she wasn't piling up more trouble for herself. At the thought of the trouble she was undoubtedly
disseminating
he again felt such a tug at his heart he could practically have wept; have sunk down on the grass and sobbed.

And during the next few days, indeed, he wanted desperately to phone her. Several times he reached for the receiver. But he felt bound by that promise she had tried to exact. He couldn't have borne to hear her disappointment. Her exasperation.

He scanned the local newspaper; yet to his frustration—and relief—discovered nothing.

He eventually gave Marsha the packet of Passing Cloud that he'd had in his pocket all evening.

He never saw Daisy again. One of his colleagues took over her business, which in any case she soon placed in the hands of another company. He never knew what inspired extravagances she might have uttered to Mr Queechy or the police.

In the early days he thought about her a lot: with longing and regret and the wistful conviction that he had let something rather precious pass him by.

In later years, however, he used to hear about her from his sons: uncharitably from the one, with laughing toleration from the other. And on one occasion, when he and Janet paid a flying visit to the latter, deliberately picking a day when they knew Phoebe wouldn't be there, for neither he nor his wife approved of couples who cohabited—on that occasion the telephone rang and Malcolm shouted from the kitchen asking him to answer. It was Daisy; he recognized the voice at once. While Malcolm was on his way to speak to her Andrew adjured him, in a whisper quite unnecessary, not to divulge his identity—“I met her in a different life, you know; my God, how that woman could talk!”—but he felt a little shaken none the less, forcefully reminded of the miraculous escape he'd had one night some forty years earlier: not merely from the arms of the Law and the possibility of unimaginable humiliation before the magistrates; nor from the arms of Daisy's obese and unattractive landlord; but more particularly, of course, from the arms of Daisy herself, who'd been bent on acquiring a luckless successor to poor old Henry—and who might, so
very
nearly, have managed to catch herself one, at that!