A Lovely Day to Die (15 page)

Oh, well.

It was past eight o’clock when Christine finally locked up the office and went out into the February dark; and by this time her usual bus (as she discovered after a long and icy wait at the bus-stop) had stopped running. There was nothing for it but to take the tube—an awkward, roundabout route, ending with a long and uphill walk from the station—so that by the time she reached home she was too weary to think about anything but a hot bath and an early night. She hardly even noticed, as she fitted her key into the lock and opened the door, that there was no sound or movement
from within. You’d have thought he’d at least have called out to her when he heard her come in—he must be there, because the lights were on in both kitchen and sitting-room.

“Bernard?” she called out tentatively, but there was no reply. She took off her coat, hung it up, and then went into the lighted sitting-room.

There, in one of the big chairs—
her
chair—sat a strange woman. No, not quite strange—that bleached built-up hairdo, those huge, self-pitying eyes, were all too recognizable, even after so many weeks.

Yes, it was Marcia. The woman at the party that night. The divorcée who had manoeuvred Bernard into driving her home, and thus caused that appalling row … and now here she was, reclining in Christine’s own special chair, a straw shopping-bag lolling on the floor beside her, for all the world as if she lived here.

The sheer cheek of it left Christine absolutely stunned. She could not even feel anger, so outrageous was the whole situation. So
this
was why Bernard hadn’t minded her being late. He’d been delighted by it, seeing it as a heaven-sent opportunity to invite this … this ..!

And it was only now, looking at the visitor closely for the first time, that Christine realised that the woman was crying. Crying helplessly, hopelessly, the tears running down her cheeks without any attempt at control.

What
does
one say to one’s husband’s mistress (for such Christine assumed her to be) when one finds her crying her eyes out in one’s sitting-room? The etiquette books haven’t got around to this one yet.

“What’s the matter?” was the best she could do. She felt neither anger not pity, only a sort of stupefied embarrassment: “What ..?”

The young woman looked older than she had at the party. Right now, with her make-up all washed away by tears and her face haggard with anxiety, you could see clearly that she must be well into her thirties. She looked up at Christine with a sort of
shamefaced
appeal.

“I—I’m sorry!” she mumbled, “I really am sorry. I don’t know what to say.”

Christine didn’t know what to say either, though in fact the story was a simple one, and as old as time. Yes, Marcia was pregnant. Yes, Bernard was the father. Yes, she’d tried to tell him earlier, but he’d been kind of funny—put the phone down when she rang him this morning—that kind of thing.

“And so I
had
to come,” she sniffed. “I know it’s awful, in your own flat and everything, but you see I didn’t know where else to find him. I tried to ring him at the office, but … well … with all those people around … telling him a thing like that! I felt … well …
you
know …”

Christine didn’t know. How could she? How could she, of all people, know what it would feel like to tell Bernard, Darling, I’m pregnant. Darling, I’m having your baby. Words which had ached inside her all these years, clamouring, shrieking to be spoken. And now this woman … this Marcia …

In a searing, instantaneous flash she saw it all. Saw Marcia walking tall in the glory of a bright maternity smock—the maternity smock that Christine should have been wearing. Saw her walking like a goddess through the streets, carrying Bernard’s baby. Saw her cradling the little creature in her arms, Bernard’s eyes blinking up at her from the tiny face, the hair on the crown of the small head already standing up in a little quiff, just as Bernard’s did. And she saw Bernard, too …

“Where
is
Bernard?” she heard herself asking, in a strange, choked voice; and Marcia raised her big, tear-filled eyes with a look of puzzlement that must surely have been contrived.

“Bernard? Oh. Didn’t you meet him then? He was going to drive me home first, but I was feeling sick, you see, and then it was getting late, and so then he said he was going to meet you off your bus. He said he must see you—talk to you—before you came in and found me here. He said he wanted to explain …”

He did, did he? Explain that after all these years, after all the soul-searchings and the heartbreak and the tears—after all this it was to be another woman, not Christine, who was to bear his child?
A woman who didn’t even want it particularly—a woman to whom the whole miracle was merely a sordid bit of bad luck? All this to be explained during a three-minute drive from the bus-stop—and Christine’s forgiveness to be obtained as well, and her support enlisted for whatever dreary solution to their “problem” he and this woman were to decide on?

He would be at the bus-stop right now. How long would he hang about there, in the icy wind, composing pretty speeches out of the ugly facts? Twenty minutes, perhaps? Half an hour?

There was no time to lose.

“Did you say you were feeling sick?” she asked solicitously; and Marcia nodded, darting Christine a swift, watery glance. Pale, tear-stained and distraught she might be, but behind it all lurked an intolerable smugness, a secret, gloating triumph that you could not miss.

“
I’m
the one who’s pregnant!” the glance seemed to say: “Not you; you’re barren! I’m the one with the pregnancy!
I’m
the one with the sickness, the problems, the power and the glory …”

“Yes,” she said aloud, in a weak little voice, “Yes, actually, I do feel a bit sick …”

Right, my girl. You’re going to feel sicker.

Aloud, Christine said. “I’ll get you something. Just sit there, I won’t be long,” and she hurried away into the bathroom.

Quinine: that was the stuff. That’s what women had used in the old days, creeping after dark into dubious chemists’ shops, in the bad old days before the age of easy, hygienic abortions on the National Health. If it had worked then, it would work now. Despite all the Yoga and the Consciousness-Raising and the rest, female organs themselves hadn’t changed. They would still react in the same old way to the same old-fashioned chemical onslaught.

Ah, here it was. It was donkey’s years since it had been used, though; her father must have left it here after one of his visits in the days when he was still liable to the odd touch of malaria. Would the stuff still be potent, after all this time? She uncorked the heavy, old-fashioned glass bottle, dusty and slightly sticky with long disuse, and sniffed at it.

It certainly smelt strong enough. Through the dust and the stickiness on the label, she could just read “40 Grains”.

How the hell much was 40 Grains?

*

“Here,” she said to Marcia, handing her the glass. “Drink it down all at one go, and you won’t notice the bitterness … It’s awfully good for you,” she babbled on, as Marcia, having obeyed the instructions, did indeed notice the bitterness, almost choked on it. “And for the baby, too. It’s full of iron, you see,” she improvised wildly. “That’s what does you so much good. You should take some more when you get home … Here, take the bottle, you can keep it,” and she shoved it into Marcia’s shopping-bag, her hands shaking in her haste. She had no idea how long it took for the drug to take effect, and no way was she going to risk Marcia’s having her miscarriage
here.

Especially as Bernard would be back any minute.

“Bernard won’t be back for hours,” she lied glibly, forestalling any idea Marcia might have of waiting around in hopes of a lift.

“He’ll have—”she thought wildly—“He’ll have gone on to see if I’m still at the office …”

He wouldn’t. Not in a thousand years. Never mind.

“I’ll get you a taxi,” she insisted, brushing aside Marcia’s protestations.

Expense was no object. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out.

*

Where
was
Bernard? An hour had passed since Marcia’s
departure
, and still he hadn’t returned. He couldn’t
still
be waiting at the bus-stop. He must, Christine decided, be driving aimlessly around, worried sick, filling in time, not daring to face his wife. And no wonder! Serve him right!

Another hour. Christine could settle to nothing, the
confrontation
with her husband hanging over her like this. What would he say? What
could
he say? And what would she reply?

Midnight now … Past midnight … and when the phone finally rang, Christine leapt from her chair almost hysterical. So he
didn’t even dare to confront her face-to-face, he had to distance himself at the other end of a telephone wire!

But it wasn’t Bernard. It was a voice strange to her—a woman’s voice. Marcia’s flatmate, apparently, full of apologies for ringing so late, but she was worried about Marcia, she really was. Had Marcia been all right during her visit? The thing was, she’d been taken ill just after getting in—pains, headache, dizziness, ringing in the ears; and she seemed to be getting worse …

“She’s having a miscarriage, that’s all,” interrupted Christine, unable to keep the triumph out of her voice. “She’ll be all right, don’t worry. It happens to lots of women.”

There was a short, stunned pause at the other end. Then: “But she can’t be. The tests were negative. We’ve just heard.”

Negative. The stunned silence was at Christine’s end this time. Negative. Not pregnant at all. After all this! Her head was spinning.

“… all the symptoms of pregnancy,” the voice was continuing. “It’s quite common, the doctor told us, with these highly-strung women …” and in the midst of this recital, Christine heard the sound of the key in the front door.

So Bernard was back! At last! And about time too! She brought the conversation with the unknown flatmate to an end as quickly as she could, but not before Bernard walked right past her and into the sitting-room. That was where she found him, just standing, still in his wet mackintosh and with his hair plastered flat to his head by the rain.

It was for him to speak first. To explain, to apologize, to defend himself; but when he didn’t, there was nothing for it but for Christine to launch the attack.

“In case you’re interested, that call was about your little friend,” she told him icily. “Apparently she’s not pregnant after all.”

She paused, for his reaction, but when none came she
continued:
“The tests were negative, they’ve just heard … I do think, Bernard, you might at least have …”

But still he stood, blank and silent, and now for the first time Christine really looked at him, saw how white he looked, how strained. He was like a man in shock. It made it difficult to know how to go on.

“So that lets you off the hook, I suppose,” she said, rather feebly. “Much luckier than you deserve, if I may say so …”

“Luckier? Yes. I suppose so. Of course.”—and then, as if speaking to himself: “For a day—for nearly a whole day—I thought I was a father,” he said slowly, and as he spoke the word Christine seemed to hear in his voice something she had never heard before, had given up hope of ever hearing. “Now that I know I’m not, it makes me feel … I feel … Oh, Chris ..!”

*

Don’t push it, Christine! Don’t push it! And in fact there was no need to do so. His capitulation was complete.

*

That night she lay long awake, not, this time, in the familiar state of despondency, but in a state of pulsating joy and hope. She was aware, of course, that she couldn’t have conceived tonight, not possibly, because how could her system yet know that the Pills had been hurled away for ever? It couldn’t be next week … but soon, soon. By the time the summer came, and the roses were heavy in the gardens, she would be carrying Bernard’s child.
She
would be the one walking tall and proud through the streets, for all the world to see.

Her child. Hers and Bernard’s.

And then the telephone rang.

At three o’clock in the morning? What on earth ..?

The same voice. The flatmate’s voice. Marcia was worse. Terribly much worse. No, of course it couldn’t be psychosomatic like the pregnancy … She was already in a coma, an ambulance was on its way … The doctor said she
must
have
taken something … Was Christine
sure
… absolutely sure ..?

*

Quietly, Christine cut the call off; then sat, crouched over the telephone, the receiver still to her ear, listening to its dead humming.

If Marcia died, she, Christine, would be a murderess. She wasn’t one yet, of course, because Marcia was still alive, being lifted in and out of ambulances, being stomach-pumped and so forth; but if she
did
die, then Christine would change, between one moment and the next, from being an ordinary jealous woman into being a murderess.

Would she feel the change? Would she feel it as a sort of shudder through all her being? If she was looking into the mirror at the time, would she see her face change under her very eyes into a murderess’s face ..?

For a moment, she thought that the pounding in her ears was the police already, pounding on the door … but no, it was all right, it was only the thundering of her heart …

*

They would trace her, all right. How could they not, what with the interfering flatmate knowing her telephone number and everything, not to mention the fatal bottle which they would find in Marcia’s bag? With all their computers and things, they’d probably be able to trace it to the exact chemist it was bought from all those years ago.

They would come for her. The police … The reporters. Her face would be plastered on the front page of every newspaper in the land … her likeness, finally, would find its place in the Chamber of Horrors …

*

But not yet! Suddenly a peculiar strength came to her, a stillness, and all her panic drained away.

They wouldn’t arrest her
yet.
It would take them days, maybe weeks, to assemble the evidence, and then more weeks—months, even—before the case came to Court. And meantime … meantime …