Cushing's Crusade (8 page)

Up to that moment Derek had thought Angela rather glum but
her sudden animation made him wonder whether her remarks about his attack on Colin had been made tongue in cheek. The last time he had seen her she had been seventeen or eighteen, ten years ago, and she didn’t look very different now. No make-up; straight blonde hair brushing her shoulders. A sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose and a slight gap between her front teeth; her expression almost sulky in repose but utterly transformed when she reacted.

‘Be as rude to me as you like,’ said Charles, ‘but don’t offend Mrs Hocking.’

Angela turned to Derek and said, ‘Don’t be fooled by him. He doesn’t care a damn for the woman’s feelings. He’s just scared of losing a cook and not being able to get another.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with that,’ Diana replied.

‘Perhaps you’d be less inclined to be sympathetic to my
charming
brother if you and your husband were suddenly asked to leave. Colin and I got our marching orders this morning.’ Angela smiled pleasantly at Diana and folded her arms with complete composure.

Mrs Hocking wheeled in a trolley with their main course: chicken casserole. As Charles doled out helpings he turned to Angela and said without apparent resentment, ‘If I suddenly turned up at Colin’s flat and asked to stay, I wonder how he’d react.’

Angela let out a little cry of sisterly admiration. ‘Isn’t he just wonderful? Of course he has seven bedrooms and Colin lives in a two-room flat, and then Colin did just happen to come with me, and I am Charles’s little sister, but apart from that the
comparison’s
absolutely bang on target.’

Charles put down the serving-spoon with a clatter. ‘The
possession
of a large house doesn’t give the owner’s relatives the right to come and occupy it at will.’

Angela nodded understandingly and murmured to Derek, ‘In most primitive tribes generosity creates loyalty. Isn’t that so?’

Before Derek could answer, Charles cut in, ‘In our society it creates parasites like you, Angela.’

‘What are you then?’ rapped out Colin, bringing down his fist
on the table. ‘Art dealers are the biggest bloody parasites of all.’

‘And critics?’ asked Charles, as he started to pour out wine.

Colin looked as though he was about to choke. ‘What did you make out of that Léger show? A hundred thousand? Two hundred?’

Charles finished pouring wine into Diana’s glass and replied soothingly, ‘They weren’t given to me, you know. Interest rates aren’t cheap these days. Shall I tell you what the overheads were on that one show?’

‘Shall I tell you what my salary is for one year?’ shouted Colin, pointing his fork at Charles.

‘I’m sure the Inland Revenue would be more interested,’ Charles came back coolly.

Colin pushed back his chair abruptly and left the table. A moment later they heard his footsteps on the stairs.

‘You don’t suppose he’s decided to leave?’ Charles asked Angela.

‘What do you think?’ she replied savagely.

Charles shrugged his shoulders. ‘Let’s say I’m hopeful.’

‘If he decides to go, I still intend to stay,’ Angela said quietly. ‘I’ve no use for gestures.’

‘You’re making one by staying,’ smiled Diana.

‘If it gets on your tits, it’ll have been worth it.’

Giles, who had been listening in horrified disbelief, suddenly let out a stifled sob. Derek looked round guiltily; he had been so engrossed with what was being said that he had not noticed the effect it was having on his son. Before he could intervene, Diana had helped the boy to his feet and led him from the room. As they left, Colin appeared in the doorway, holding a battered
suitcase
. He glared at Charles for a moment and then turned on his heel. After a short silence Charles said to Derek:

‘How about some lemon meringue pie?’

*

Diana, Derek and Charles were drinking coffee in the
sitting-room
when Angela rejoined them. Without a word to Charles she opened the drinks and poured herself a brandy. She passed the glass slowly under her nose and sniffed deeply.

‘What bouquet. I think that’s the word.’ She paused and smiled contemplatively. ‘My husband loved brandy. He drank a whole bottle the day I left him. Very nearly became an alcoholic’ Charles had shut his eyes. Angela came and sat next to Derek. ‘There’s a happy ending, though. He’s living with his
switchboard
operator now and doesn’t touch a drop. They’re thinking of getting engaged.’ She nudged Derek. ‘Get it? Engaged … switch-board girl … No? Well, never mind.’ After a long silence Angela said, ‘I hope the boy was all right.’

‘He was sick,’ said Diana softly.

‘I’d better go and see him,’ murmured Derek.

‘He’s asleep now.’

Angela seemed to be having trouble stopping herself laughing.

‘I actually made him physically sick?’ she asked in amazement.

Diana nodded solemnly. A moment later Angela’s laughter filled the room. Diana rose with dignity and said that she was ready for bed.

‘And I must feed the cat,’ muttered Derek, following her out.

*

Diana hung up her dress carefully, took off her pants and got into bed. Derek climbed in beside her.

‘Was Giles badly sick?’ he asked.

Diana laughed maliciously. ‘He wasn’t sick at all. I said it to embarrass that ghastly girl.’

‘Giles knows what you said?’

‘Of course. He thought it was quite funny.’ Derek said
nothing
. ‘Don’t you think so?’

Derek thought for a moment. ‘No, I don’t really.’

‘You heard how rude she was to me,’ said Diana sharply.

‘Everyone was rude.’

‘Let’s forget it then,’ she replied, turning off the light.

After the usual dull roar of traffic that permeated even the rear rooms of Abercorn Mansions, Derek found it hard to get used to the unfamiliar stillness of the countryside. The distant barking of a dog or even the sudden notes of a blackbird on the lawn sounded unnaturally loud. Derek tried to sleep but thoughts about the following day prevented him. He had imagined a very
different first evening with Charles, the suave and unruffled host, effortlessly in command of everything and everybody. But after the chaos of the past hours, the arrival of his father, which Derek had envisaged as a severe blow to Charles’s perfectly planned holiday arrangements, would go virtually unnoticed and might very well prove more embarrassing to Derek himself than to anybody else. Already Derek could see that his trip to collect his father from Truro would leave Charles and Diana alone for the best part of the afternoon, and the last thing he had intended to allow them was uninterrupted time together.

Other worries also distressed him. He had imagined himself easily acting the perfect husband, but all the time the corrosive acid of his bitterness ate away his capacity for good humour and bonhomie. But more alarming than this was his suspicion that affability might not be the answer anyway. If he
did
manage to be pleasant and amiable every minute of each day, they might very well think him a more gullible idiot than they had previously assumed. Don’t worry, Charles, we can do it in the sitting-room in front of him; he’ll think we’re doing keep fit exercises or rehearsing a modern ballet.

As Derek lay in the darkness he began to doubt even his belief that his decision to come to Cornwall had been proof of his independence and newly found resolution. Why was he in
Cornwall
? Because of Diana. Why was his father coming? Because of Diana. Why had he forced Giles to come too? Because of Diana. Derek saw his suitcase on a chair near the foot of the bed. Why not just pack and leave? Place a note on the dining-room table: ‘Have gone to Ujiji.’ He imagined the stunned silence when they read the note. They would feel that he had weighed them up and found them wanting. He was thinking what a long time it would probably take them to find out where Ujiji was, when he fell asleep.

A thin channel of sunlight pierced the gap between the curtains and formed a neat square of light on the pale green fitted carpet to the right of Derek’s bed. He reached for his watch on the bedside table: after ten. Diana had got up without waking him, had let him lie unconscious while the early morning freshness faded with the steadily increasing heat of the day, had allowed him to miss the dew and in all likelihood his breakfast. Hurriedly he put on the clothes he had worn the day before and went downstairs.

Nobody in the dining-room; only the remnants of breakfast. The noise of a hoover came from the sitting-room. As he came in Mrs Hocking switched it off and asked what he would like for breakfast. Five minutes later when she brought him toast and coffee he asked where everybody was. Apparently Charles had taken Diana down to the village, Angela had not got up and Giles had gone off with his snorkel. So that was how they intended to deal with his intruding presence: pretend he wasn’t there. Derek gulped down a cup of coffee and hastily ate a slice of toast. They wouldn’t get rid of him that easily.

He thought of going to the village in the car but decided that Giles’s bicycle would be more in the holiday spirit. Tregeare was only half-a-mile away and downhill all the way so it didn’t take long. A small place, not much more than a cluster of cottages and a single street leading down to a narrow harbour. Considering the time of year there were surprisingly few people about. Derek had noticed Charles’s silver-grey Lancia outside the village shop but they weren’t inside. He propped the bicycle against the
churchyard
wall and walked down to the harbour. No sign of them
there. Out to sea he could see a returning fishing-boat pursued by a clamouring cloud of gulls. In the harbour itself there were more yachts and motor boats than fishing-craft. He walked back up a worn flight of stone steps to the centre of the village. The pub wasn’t open yet. Derek decided to try the church.

He heard their voices as soon as he entered the porch. They were obviously up at the east end because he couldn’t make out what they were saying. Suddenly he had a childish urge to give them a shock. He peered round the edge of the half-open door. They were examining the carvings on the pulpit. Derek saw a small arch with stairs leading up from it, probably to the belfry. He moved quickly behind the font and managed to reach the steps without being seen. Breathing heavily, he started climbing. From an internal window in the belfry he could look down on the nave. Now he could hear them clearly. Charles was pointing to a bench-end.

‘Pretty crudely done really,’ he was saying.

‘I think she’s rather fun,’ replied Diana.

‘As mermaids go I suppose she’s not bad,’ Charles conceded.

‘Are there lots of them in Cornish churches?’

‘Not that I know of. No, the story is that a young choir-boy here in fifteen something had a lovely voice and used to sing down on the rocks near the harbour. Anyway this mermaid took such a fancy to his voice that she lured him into the sea and that was that. Maybe I’ve got it wrong. Usually mermaids are the ones with lovely voices.’

‘Maybe this one liked duets,’ laughed Diana.

What other fey little pieces of local information did he have up his sleeve? Something interesting in the vestry? Spread out the choir boys’ cassocks on the floor and …

‘There’s a pretty good view from the tower. One can see right across the bay over the roofs. Very picturesque.’

‘Lovely.’

To his right Derek could see some wooden stairs leading
upwards
, doubtless to the top of the tower. Nothing for it but to announce himself before they found him spying on them. He took hold of one of the three available bell ropes and gave it a
sharp tug. A feeble clang sounded somewhere above him. He tried again with a more gratifying result. Then he clambered down the stairs and gave them a cheery ‘good morning’.

‘We didn’t see you come in,’ said Charles with a smile. For a moment Derek wondered whether they might suspect him of malice but on reflection that did not seem very likely. Good old Derek sneaking up into the belfry, just the sort of idiotic, retarded adolescent joke he’d fancy to start the day.

‘Didn’t know I was a campanologist, I suppose? One of my many talents.’ He grinned at them both and then feigned dismay. ‘God, it isn’t some time-honoured local way of summoning a fire engine from the nearest town?’

‘Not that I know of,’ Charles replied.

‘What a relief.’

The view from the tower was quite as good as Charles had predicted. The sea a brilliant blue, the sky clear, the hills on the other side of the estuary a pleasing green. They would probably take it in good part if he made a desperate lunge for the parapet. Didn’t know I could fly, I suppose? One of my many talents. The wind blew back Diana’s hair attractively. She was wearing a very short pair of white shorts with matching socks that came up just below the knee. Derek hadn’t previously seen her green singlet with a yellow stripe across it just below the breasts. It suited her; so too did her large sun glasses.

She turned to him. ‘Don’t you wish we had a house down here?’

Derek nodded. The archivists’ strike is now into its eighth week. Angry crowds of book lovers broke windows outside several public libraries yesterday. The archivists are demanding a basic rate of ten pounds a week. Last week booksellers announced that Mr Derek Cushing’s
European
Expansion
in
East
Africa:
1870–1900
has become a best-seller in Burundi. Ninety-seven per cent of the population of Burundi one thought to be illiterate. Derek could remember dozens of dinner parties, when they had entertained more frequently, and the same topic: a small weekend place in the country. Suffolk’s still cheap. No, not any more. Lincolnshire then? A bit flat and dreary, isn’t it?
Most of the participants had had no intention of buying anything anyway. I was thinking of something a little different: a semi in a dormitory suburb, a penthouse in an industrial overspill, not actually in the country but with the country not too far away. A chance to do an exciting survey of the sort of social problems that crop up where country meets town.

All three of them were silent. If I had stayed away they would be talking now, thought Derek. Charles would be pointing out interesting features of the panoramic view. How interested Diana had been by the story of the mermaid, how happy and exuberant and now his presence seemed to drain her. Once, and not so many years ago, he had told her similar anecdotes about buildings of historic interest. The piscina on the south side of the chancel —pronounced pisseena—was used by the priest to pour away the water he had used to wash the cup and his hands after communion. Strange that a small stone basin in a wall should have the name the Romans gave their fish-ponds; and so he would have talked about words and how they changed. And she had not found it dry and dull; but now my hair is falling out, and I suffer from piles and there’s no denying Charles is very
well-preserved
and she has never had to wash and mend his
underwear
. They are not long the days of wine and roses. Sympathies should belong to lovers and not to thwarted husbands. They could have kissed under the bells without his intrusion. So why not leave them now? Why tag along simply to watch your own defeat in each look and word that passes between them? You suffer and achieve nothing except an increase in their desire.

Outside the church Charles suggested that they went all three to see a nearby creek which could be reached by walking through some woods; a most delightful walk, he said.

‘You two go,’ answered Derek.

‘Are you sure? No, come on, Derek.’

‘I’d rather not.’

So Charles accepted it and he and Diana got into the silver grey Lancia and drove off towards their wood. Derek mounted his son’s bicycle and pedalled back to the house; a hard up-hill
ride that made his thighs ache and misted his glasses with sweaty condensation.

He didn’t go into the house but taking one of the
prawning-nets
from the garage, where he had left them the night before, he headed down to the beach.

When he reached the shore Derek realized that he had no bag to put his possible catch in. He sat down on a rock and put his head in his hands. A fine sight he would be to any observer: a balding man with his prawning-net, sitting alone by the sea like a forgotten child. What possible point could there be in catching prawns anyway? Did any sane man pursue pop-eyed crustaceans while his wife was screwed on the ferny floor of a nearby wood? Was such a pursuit reasonable or probable? Derek imagined some alternatives: a trunk call to his solicitor, a feverish bicycle ride to the nearest town to buy a camera and then a blundering
lumbering
run through the undergrowth to surprise them with his flash bulb. A long swim towards America, or some more bizarre form of suicide involving a deadly jelly-fish. In my position there is
nothing
rational to be done. Simply by coming to Cornwall I have destroyed all normal courses of action, all natural responses.

The question was whether to wade into the sea in his trousers or whether to take them off. Stupid to get them wet. In sky-blue underpants Derek wandered along the beach searching for a
container
. After some time he found a rusty can. The prawns could be kept down with a flat stone. The next step was to find the prawns. From childhood holidays by the sea he remembered that prawns normally liked places where there was an abundance of the kind of seaweed with bubbles that pop when trodden upon. If he could find this weed and a firm sandy bottom there was every chance of success. The tide was low and just beginning to turn. Perfect conditions and in an estuary famous for its prawns.

For fifteen minutes he was unsuccessful but then as the tide began to flow they started to come, not small and sandy-coloured like shrimps but large and clear green in the sunlit water. He had forgotten how quickly they could dart away, forwards or
backwards
, to hide under a ledge of rock or in a clump of weed. They needed stalking carefully; the net had to be plunged down and
then retracted quickly if they were not to escape. The best way would have been to have a bag tied round his neck to drop them into, so that both hands could be free to wield the large
cumbersome
net, but Derek managed well enough with his one free hand and the tin clutched firmly in the other. After an hour his fingers were numbed with cold, his back ached and his legs felt weak but he had filled the tin. Elated he splashed back to the shore and lay down on the shingle, listening to the prawns rustling and flipping under the retaining stone that blocked their escape. For the first time in several weeks he felt light-hearted. In circumstances like these? He thought of his wife’s white shorts discarded, her green vest tossed aside carelessly on some bush, he thought of more intimate details, but strangely his mood did not change
immediately
. Suffering and fear are sometimes said to give way to numbed indifference; but that wasn’t it at all. The truth was that while hunting his prawns he had forgotten her. So intent had he been on the green bottom of the sea that he had barely noticed the passage of time. A brief and futile piece of self-induced
forgetfulness
? A temporary anaesthetic to numb the pain? But the mood persisted. He had acted by himself and for himself without any suggestion from her and not in response to something she had done.

When he got back to the house she would ask him what he had been doing and he would give her a full account and perhaps she would think: how typical of him to be so easily duped; searching for prawns while Charles and I were fucking. Maybe one day he would tell her that he had known but had gone prawning in spite of his knowledge. I enjoyed myself more because I knew, and he would laugh at her stupefaction. You see, I’m free. I let you have it away with him, not because I couldn’t stop you; I could have cramped your style to the bitter end, forced you to do everything with me, subjected you to family games on the sand till you screamed with anger and frustration, but I decided not to. Ironic, isn’t it, that you were bored with me because you thought you knew me through and through? Sad; because you didn’t begin to understand me. You jumped to a foregone conclusion and looked for easier pleasures. I forgive you. And she would weep as she
had never wept before. Derek heard footsteps crunching on the shingle. He turned to see Angela looking down at him.

‘Catch anything?’

‘In the can, as they say in the film world; I haven’t counted them.’

‘Shrimps?’

‘No, prawns.’

Derek was suddenly aware that he was still trouserless. He started to reach for them but then stopped. Why bother? He laughed aloud. Angela gave him a questioning look.

‘I’m sorry,’ he murmured. ‘Shrimps, you see. Reminded me of my favourite spoonerism. Shrotted pimps.’ He looked at her expectantly. ‘Potted shrimps.’

‘Stupid of me,’ she replied with a wry smile.

Derek tried to think of something else amusing to say but invention failed him. He very much wished to avoid a repetition of the aggression of the previous evening. Angela was still
standing
beside him. He wanted to get up because he disliked any woman looking down at the top of his balding head, but the thought of standing up without his trousers kept him seated on the shingle. True, there was little difference between some swimming trunks and some underpants but all underwear had a greater tendency to appear soiled and stained, and Derek had not changed his pants for several days.

‘Why not sit down?’ he suggested.

When Angela had done so, she said, ‘What’ll you do with the prawns?’

‘There’ll be just about enough for each of us to have a couple before lunch.’

‘Why not eat them now?’

‘A small matter of cooking.’

‘We could light a bonfire and boil them in seawater.’

‘There’s nothing to keep the can above a fire, unless you’d care to hold it.’