A Rather English Marriage (17 page)

The end result and main beneficiary of this education had been Mary: timid, yielding, biddable and, after nearly fifty years of marriage, no less mysterious than his mother. As instructed by Nanny long ago, he hadn't pried into her
business, never opened her letters, and look what had happened. She'd let him down, betrayed his trust. Mary had led a secret life, amassed secret money, and instead of saying,
There
Reggie,
look
what I've done for you as a surprise, she had gone behind his back and given it away, leaving him looking like a fool.

She might not have made him richer, but she hadn't left him poor. The solicitor had assured him that Mary's will was perfectly legal and he shouldn't waste money fighting it. Reggie poured himself a third gin. The accountant had pointed out that, with all his debts paid and an extra five thousand a year under the terms of the will, he was now more comfortably off than before. Provided he didn't go mad (‘No wild, wild women, Squadron Leader,' he had said drily), Reggie would be able to afford a good standard of living: top rate of BUPA, a new car every two or three years, decent booze and wine, the odd luxury or trip abroad. Reggie wondered what luxuries he was supposed to covet at his age - besides, of course, wild, wild women.

Age was the problem. Not that he was ill, thank God; mind and body still in pretty good shape, but he lacked
energy
, get-up-and-go. A course in monkey-glands like Noel Coward and Somerset Maugham and the old Aga Khan was another luxury he could do with. He'd been hard as nails when he kissed Liz, but whether he'd stay that way if he got her in between the sheets was the question that nagged at him. It was years since he and Mary had made love; years since he'd made love regularly to anyone. The occasional tart on his evenings in London didn't really count. They were paid to make sure that it worked. For the last couple of years (made circumspect for fear of Aids), he had confined his visits to just one: the sensual and costly Sabrina. Never had any problems with her. Sabrina was
very
understanding.

Reggie settled deeper into his armchair and fidgeted with the bad boy. Reassuringly, he grew big and bad almost immediately - yes, master, here I am, master, where can I do your bidding? Getting an erection was no problem. Keeping it and
using it - that he couldn't be certain about. He remembered Liz's heavy breasts, the firm weight of one cupped in the palm of his hand, its soft resistance to his fingers, unique and unlike any other resistance: not like melons, whatever people said, smoother and more give than a peach, firm nipples like berries … His hands flexed and unfolded as the bad boy became harder still.

Time for a trip to London, Reggie, my lad, to check out the equipment, make sure it's all in good working order. Not likely that any of his former popsies would deliver the goods, but there was always Sabrina, in her overheated, perfumed top-floor flat up behind Marble Arch. Reginald ran his finger down the alphabetical index in his diary as far as the Ps (she was listed prudently under ‘plumber'), and dialled the number in London. Her maid answered.

‘Who shall I tell her is calling, please?'

‘It's the Squadron Leader here. C-J.'

‘Oooh, is it now?' she teased, and he heard the click of the phone as she put him on hold to give her mistress time to check him out before he was put through.

Sabrina punched in her electronic Psion organizer
search
S-Q-U-A-D-R-O-N L, and the information flashed up:

Pompous buffer, late sixties?? married, clean, breasts = Charlies, penis = big bad boy. No kinks exc. Nanny, erection no prob. £250. Visits 12.9.89, 20.12.89, 09.03.90
.

She sighed. Well, at least it wasn't a sabre or a scimitar, a greasy piston or a hot rod, an elephant's tool or a rhino horn. ‘Big bad boy' meant he'd be the naughty schoolboy type, not a fantasy merchant, nor a trouble-maker.

‘It's my beautiful, big,
bad
boy!' Sabrina's playful and alluring voice came down the line. ‘Where have you
been
, you bad lad? And
when
are you coming to see me?'

Straightaway Reggie wanted to cry into the telephone, blubber' about Mary, and the money, and the infernal nieces,
burrow his head between Sabrina's springy breasts and ask her to make it better; but he only said, ‘How about one day next week?'

‘That'll be a treat - for both of us, hmm? I'll hand you back to Leontine. She'll fix you up with a nice
long
rendezvous. Afternoon, my darling, or can you stay with me for an evening? Well, you talk to Leontine. Till then,
bad
boy - oh, we're going to have such fun.' Another click, another pause while he waited.

Wednesday was arranged, from two o'clock onwards. Evenings were more expensive and, anyway, he didn't want to drive home too late.

‘Ms Sabrina says not to forget about inflation, Squadron Leader!' giggled Leontine. Presumably that meant her price had gone up. Well, why not? Everyone else's did. Feeling pleasantly shamefaced with anticipation, Reggie built up the fire, poured another drink and lit a cigarette. He unfolded the
Daily Telegraph
, which Roy had left on the side-table next to his chair, and turned to the letters page.

Reginald was asleep when Roy got back, mid-afternoon, carrying a W. H. Smith bag full of Christmas cards. He went down to the kitchen to brew a cup of tea, deduced from the debris on the table that the Squadron Leader's lunch had been a makeshift affair, and took a chicken out of the fridge to reach room temperature so that it would roast evenly.

They ate dinner together at one end of the dining table, over whose polished surface Roy had thrown a backing cloth of green felt and then one of Mary's damask tablecloths. Reginald carved the bird and served the vegetables and roast potatoes from the sideboard; Roy cleared the dishes and brought in the bread-and-butter pudding. Only Reginald drank wine. They didn't say a word until, over the crumbs of Jacob's cream crackers and farmhouse cheddar, Roy said, ‘About next Wednesday …'

‘Ah,' said Reggie. ‘Yes, good thing you mentioned it. Wednesday I'll be in town.'

‘If it's all the same to you, I'll be off quite early so as I can fetch June, that's Alan's wife, and the boys. They're ever so excited about going in the Merc.'

‘Oh, that's off. Operation scrubbed. Wash-out. I'll be needing the car myself to get to London.'

Roy stared at him for a moment. Then he said, ‘Begging your pardon Squadron Leader but you can't do that. You promised, and I've made all the arrangements.'

‘Well, you'll just have to cancel them, won't you? Tell them to make it the following week instead.'

‘You can't do that,' Roy said doggedly. ‘The week after's Christmas and I've already let Alan know we'll all be coming Wednesday. I can't let him down - June, and the boys too - I can't.'

Reginald looked across the table at him. The little man's hands were shaking, like his voice, and although he kept blinking he met Reggie's eyes with desperate resolution.

‘Look here, Southgate, it's bad luck about this, but you'll just have to do your visiting some other day. The car belongs to me. I said quite clearly that you might use it occasionally if I didn't need it. Next Wednesday I need it. Finito. End of story.'

Roy interlaced his fingers and clasped his two hands together. He cracked them to and fro, flexing his hands from an arch into a fist. He breathed deeply. His heart was pounding. He looked across the table. ‘In that case, Squadron Leader, you must give me enough money so I can hire a Mercedes.' (He pronounced it to rhyme with Hercules, and Reggie smirked at the fellow's ignorance.) ‘For the whole day. That I'll accept. Either that, or you'll have to change your appointment. We made an arrangement and there's four people is depending on me to keep it. Cost you about a hundred pounds, at a guess. Lucky mine's a clean driving licence.'

Reginald was thunderstruck. ‘Never heard such infernal cheek in all my life,' he said, and took a deep swig from his wine glass. ‘I wouldn't dream of doing any such thing. You want a car,
you
pay for it.'

Roy pushed his chair back and stood up. ‘You call yourself a gent. Think yourself a class above me. All you've got is more money and a bigger house - and a big car that you promised to
me
next Wednesday. Where I come from, a gentleman keeps his word. Far as I'm concerned, you've broken yours, time and again. I thought I was moving in here to keep you company, help you over a bad time, the worst of times it's been for me. I thought we had that in common, we'd help one another. Now it seems all you want is a servant - unpaid at that. You think I'm here to cook your dinner and clean up after you for the privilege of living in your big house? I tell you, I'd a thousand times rather be back in my own. Thousand times.'

He paced up and down the length of the dining table, staring at the carpet. Then he raised his head. Looking directly at Reginald, he said, ‘Either I has that car next Wednesday -and I mean a Merc, not just any car - or I go upstairs and do my packing now.'

‘Sit down, man, keep your hair on. Don't get so excited. You can have the ruddy car. I'll go by train, pick up a taxi at the station. Suit me better, come to think of it. Parking in London's a nightmare these days. Nothing to get steamed up about. Sit down.'

Roy's shoulders sagged, and he shook himself and snorted a couple of times. ‘Very well,' he said. ‘Very good. That's done, then. Want a coffee, Squadron Leader? I'll put the kettle on.'

‘Sit down, I said. That was a good meal, good as the cooking at my club. Have a glass of wine. Jolly decent claret. ‘83. You can call me Reginald.'

Roy sat down. ‘Thanks all the same, but I don't think I could do that. Doesn't come natural now. I'd rather keep with Squadron Leader. I get vexed calling you sir but I couldn't get my tongue round … your Christian name. And your other name's a bit of a tongue-twister. Nobody ever call you C-J?'

‘Not if I can help it. Tell me, Southgate, man to man, what do you do for
women?'

*

All four of them were very quiet in the car as it glided through the rainy, glittering streets of south London. The two boys had begun the journey sitting bolt upright in the back seat, hoping to be seen by people they knew, overawed by the size and leather-armchair comfort of the big Mercedes. June too had been quiet, less because of the car than because, as Roy understood, she was nervous at the prospect of seeing Alan, uncertain what to say, unsure how he would look.

Once they left behind the crowded shopping streets and the car could unfold some of its reined-in power along the M20 towards Ashford, the boys became over-excited and noisy, bouncing up and down, pretending to superior mechanical knowledge, swapping jargon about torque and engine-power picked up from the motor-racing they had watched on television. As they approached the prison they fell silent again, and it was June who kept some kind of conversation going, reminding them of the Christmas presents they had brought for Alan, anticipating his surprise and pleasure. ‘No point in making Dad wait till Christmas Day. Much better if he opens them now and we can all watch.'

The sight of Alan shocked them back into silence. Roy tried to break the tension but none of them listened. Their eyes were fastened on Alan's throat, only partly obscured by a high-necked sweater. Above its thick ribbing, pale bruises coiled around his neck, faded now to a greenish-yellow but still clearly visible. Roy pitied June, who would have to try and explain them away to the boys.

Alan's face was bloated by tranquillizers, and his tongue seemed thick in his mouth, so that his speech was slow and slurred. ‘You shouldn't have let them come,' were his first words to June, adding to Roy: ‘What you doing, bringing them here, Dad?'

The explanations - Christmas, wanted to watch him open his presents, chance for the boys to ride in the car - drew a glance of sluggish contempt.

‘Grandpa's got a Merc, Dad!' said Billy.

‘Like hell he has,' muttered Alan.

‘Honest, Dad, no kidding: it's ace. It smells just like them stalls down the market for leather jackets and bikers' gear. Cor, what a lovely motor!'

Half an hour of this seemed interminable: forty minutes was unbearable.

‘Shall I take the boys back to the car now?' asked Roy. ‘Leave you two on your own for a bit?'

June grimaced. ‘I'm OK,' she said. ‘What about you, Dad? There must be things you need to tell Alan - about Mum and all that.'

‘Why don't you just push off, the lot of you?' sneered Alan.

They had stuck it out for the full hour in the end, the boys trailing glumly after Roy and June as visitors were escorted off the premises by warders with jangling, heavy key rings bumping at their belts.

In the car the two boys had said nothing, asked no questions; they fell asleep almost at once.

‘It's a disgrace!' June had muttered angrily. ‘Making them see their Dad like that. What am I supposed to tell them about those bloody great marks on his neck? Poor bloody Alan: Christ, he must have been desperate. Those bruises are serious. He meant it. And why can't they provide a decent lounge where people can come and talk in a bit of peace, bit of dignity? You're treated like a criminal from the minute you cross the door. X-raying his presents. What do they expect? Three files and a wire-cutter?'

‘Drugs more likely,' Roy had said.

‘They make a pretty good job of that without needing no help from us,' June spat. ‘Did you see his eyes? The pupils? All black. God knows what those bastards pump into him. Poor old Al.' She lowered her voice to a hissing whisper, though the boys slept on in the wide back seat. ‘I hate Billy and Joe having to see their Dad like that. How are they supposed to keep their respect? Christ, they punish the bloody innocent…'