Barbara Greer (30 page)

‘How do you do, sir?'

He turned to Mrs. Woodcock. ‘Good morning, ma'am,' he said.

She held out her hand. And, as Barbara had instructed him to do, he bowed slightly, took her hand, and raised it to his lips.

‘Won't you sit down, Mr. Greer?' Mrs. Woodcock said.

He sat in the window seat, facing them. For several moments, there was silence. Periodically, Mr. Woodcock's hand moved to stroke the cat's back. The gold signet ring on his little finger caught the sun as he first ruffled, then smoothed, the cat's crackling yellow fur. The cat purred noisily. Carson looked around the room.

His first impression of the room was that it was very dirty. The winter sunlight, pouring in through filmed and rain-streaked coloured panes, was cruel to it. It revealed the dust that covered everything. Dust hung from the fringed lampshades; it furred the dry petals of the straw flowers that sprouted, in a stiff arrangement, from a blackened silver vase; it rolled and gathered in kittens beneath the chairs and tables. Suspended in the stained glass window from rusty chains were planters which held two huge and drooping Boston ferns, and dust covered the leaves of these like a fine, October frost. The room smelled of dust and antiseptics, rubbing alcohol and medicines that stood in sticky bottles on a tray at Grandfather Woodcock's side. Housekeeping appeared to have been abandoned long ago, and now every effort was devoted to the preservation of the two relics who occupied the house.

Presently Mr. Woodcock spoke again. ‘Young man,' he asked, ‘have you settled on a career for yourself?'

Barbara had warned him, ‘Don't let him talk you into going into the paper business!' So Carson mentioned several offers of jobs he had received and that he was considering. Among them was the offer made by the Locustville Chemical Company.

Grandfather Woodcock looked up. ‘Locustville Chemical?' he said. ‘It's a good place. An excellent place, excellently managed. I know a great many of the men there, including Harvey Kendall.'

Carson had said that, after all, he had several months during which to decide, and that he was weighing all his offers carefully.

‘Don't put it off too long,' the old man said. ‘They say man wants but little here below. That's horse manure. Man wants a damn lot, everything he can get his hands on.'

‘Yes, sir,' Carson said.

‘So don't put it off. If you put things off, someone will get there ahead of you. Of the offers you've got, Locustville Chemical is the best. Take it. That's my advice.'

A few minutes later the interview ended. But Carson remembered it a week later when a letter arrived from Mr. Kendall, the president of Locustville Chemical. He had heard of Carson's interest in the company; he hoped Carson would give the company's offer his serious consideration; there were a number of other applicants for the position, so he hoped Carson would reach a decision soon. He mentioned, also, a slightly higher salary than had been discussed before.

It was really Barbara's grandfather, then, who had made him decide to take the job. He had never told Barbara this. At the time, he hadn't thought that it was important. Since then, he had not been so sure. It was Barbara's grandfather, actually, who had brought him last night to London, and who had separated them through so many other journeys. Often in the past, when she had complained of Locustville and the trips and the life they were leading, he had thought of telling her, but he never had. There was no point, really, in trying to blame her, or her family; it had been his own decision, he had made it. At the time, it had not been possible to look ahead. Of course it was never possible to look ahead.

He wondered what would have happened if it had been possible to look ahead, to see himself, years from the day Kendall's letter arrived, to see himself lying on this bed, in this hotel room, hearing these night sounds, thinking these night thoughts. ‘And here you are,' he would say to the picture as he turned to it in the imaginary album. ‘This is London, summer, 1958. You have come to sell American paint to British automobile manufacturers. You look as though you've been through a lot, and you have. You've been through four promotions, three salary increases, a number of birthday parties, and two prescription changes for your reading glasses, your eyes having grown weak and unreliable from reading reports and memoranda and watching television. You will surely develop lung cancer if you don't switch to filter cigarettes. You have survived many angers. You even had a brush with the law a while back when you were stopped for speeding on the Pennsylvania Turnpike, but—a true salesman—you talked yourself out of a ticket. Your forehead is wider than it once was, but the mind inside it is perhaps a little narrower, shrunk by habit and corseted by duty. Your gut sags somewhat, but the paraphernalia inside it still manages to churn lustily upon occasion. Once, when your wife's complaints about your job seemed more than you could take, you offered her a divorce, which she refused, which pleased you secretly. Since then, with the help of a few rules, things have not gone too badly with you both. Once, in a nightmare, you dreamed you read your own obituary. It was buried in the paper and the headline, in small type, said: ‘Carson V. Greer Dies; Was Paint Salesman,' and when you woke you were not sure whether it was the announcement of your death, or the words that followed, that shocked you more … Your tennis serve is good, but it is doubtful whether you could still snap out a lateral pass. You have fathered two children and you own, free and clear, a pretty little house in Locustville. What do you think of yourself?' He wondered what his answer might have been.

But it was foolish to wonder. So many things had changed. Grandfather Woodcock had died, Barbara's family had changed. He and Barbara themselves had changed. There were no more family picnics at the farm. The farm had changed. No one used the little guesthouse any more.

They had used the guesthouse, though. They had gone there several times again that first summer, and the next one, and the summer after that. And they had gone to several other places as well. He couldn't remember them all any more, or their sequence, or the details of each. But he could remember that they had been very happy in all those places, and for a long time. It was strange to have forgotten so much of that long time because it was really not so long ago, though it seemed to be. It was because of the way time hurried on It was funny, the way those days seemed to have flown away, and it was sad because he could not remember when they had begun to go or imagine where they had gone.

14

‘Oh, please stay!' Edith Woodcock said. They had gathered, the remnants of the family from the pool and the terrace, in the living room. The sky outside was growing darker and the wind was blowing in fierce gusts, punctuated by explosions of thunder. ‘Please,' she said. ‘This storm will be over in a minute. We've had such a lovely family Sunday, with lunch and everything. Let's continue it through dinner, shall we? Please?'

But one after another, politely and regretfully—remembering convertible cars left open in driveways, open windows in their houses that irresponsible servants could not be counted upon to close—all the family insisted that they must, truly, hurry home before it rained. And there was a hurried, ill-organised search for the equipment—towels, bathing caps, sweaters, sandals and handbags—that they had brought with them, and then there were hurried, apologetic good-byes with special attention paid to Barbara whom, they all protested, they should see more often. Would she be coming to the farm again soon? They hoped so. And the next time she came, would she give them a few days' notice? They hoped she would because then they could plan a little dinner, or a little picnic, or a little luncheon, or a little group for cocktails, or a little something. And would she please, give all their love to Carson? And bring him with her the next time? And the boys—Dobie and Michael? There were so many friends who asked about Barbara and Carson and the little boys, and who would love to see them. So, when they came next time, let it be for a real visit, they said.

And then they were all gone, dashing for their cars, as the wind blew leaves from the trees and stirred up whirlwinds of dust from the drive. Barbara, Edith and Barney stood at the window, watching them go. ‘Oh, I wish they had stayed!' Edith said plaintively. She turned to Barney. ‘Where's Peggy?' she asked.

‘She went downtown,' he said. ‘She had an errand to do.'

‘What sort of an errand would she have to do downtown on
Sunday
?'

‘I think there was something she wanted to pick up,' he said.

‘
What
, for heaven's sake? Oh, dear! I just hope she's not out in the car in this storm.'

‘They say a car is the safest place to be in a thunderstorm,' he said.

‘But the
roads!
' Edith said. As they watched, the first heavy drops of rain fell. ‘Well,' Edith said, ‘I just hope she has sense enough to pull off the road and let the storm pass.' She turned into the living room and began turning on lamps. The sky broke, and with a sound that nearly drowned out the sound of thunder, rain lashed down against the windowpanes. The lawn outside was suddenly lit with a great flash of lightning.

Barney counted, ‘One … two … three …' And the clap of thunder came.

‘What are you doing?' Barbara asked.

‘Just a mile away,' he said. ‘They say you can tell how far away the storm is—by the number of seconds between the lightning and the thunderclap.'

‘I've never heard that!' Barbara said.

Edith Woodcock sat down in a chair and reached for the enamelled buzzer that rested on the table beside it. When John came, she said, ‘John, are you sure all the windows are closed?'

‘Yes, ma'am.'

Then the lamps dimmed, flickered and came up again.

‘Oh, don't tell me the power is going to go off!' Edith said. ‘At times like this, I wish we didn't live in the country.'

Barbara crossed the room and sat down next to her mother; Barney still stood at the window, his hands deep in his trouser pockets, looking out. ‘Lord, look at it rain!' he said.

‘What time is it?' Edith asked.

Barney withdrew one hand and glanced at his wrist watch. ‘Four-thirty,' he said.

‘It would have been so nice if they all could have stayed,' Edith said to Barbara. ‘We could have had a little family supper. Do you remember, dear, the little family picnics we used to have across the lake? Weren't they fun?'

‘Yes, they were, Mother,' Barbara said.

Edith frowned, her chin resting on the curled finger of her hand. ‘I don't know
why
we don't have little picnics like that any more!' Then she smiled. ‘I guess we've just got out of the habit,' she said cheerfully. ‘And anyway, today was a lovely, lovely day, wasn't it?'

‘Yes. Lovely,' Barbara said.

‘Though I can't understand Billy running off like that—without even stopping to say hello to the rest of us. It's not like Billy to run off like that.'

‘I guess he had things to do,' Barbara said.

‘Yes, I suppose. Poor Billy. He does work so hard. I suppose we should all be very grateful to Billy.'

‘Yes,' Barbara said.

‘Barney, dear,' Edith said. ‘Would you hand me one of my cigarettes from that little box there?'

Barney turned, went to the table and picked up the silver cigarette box. He opened it and carried it to her.

‘Thank you, dear,' Edith said.

Barney flipped his lighter and held the flame to her cigarette.

‘Thank you, darling,' she murmured again, through smoke. She raised one hand, and with a series of slow little waves, cut through the smoke with her fingers, dispersing it. ‘Now tell me,' she said brightly ‘What did we all think of Sally's young man?'

‘Very nice,' Barney said.

‘Oh, Barney!' Mrs. Woodcock said gaily. ‘Really, you are the limit! You're so polite, dear—almost to a fault.' She turned to Barbara. ‘Have you discovered how
polite
Barney is? Don't you think he's really polite to a fault? Honestly, I think that even if I introduced Barney to—to—well, to Nikita Khrushchev!—and asked him later what he thought of him, Barney would say, very politely, “Very nice”!' She laughed, and Barbara and Barney both laughed softly with her. ‘Well,' she said, ‘I did
not
think he was very nice. I mean, actually. I thought he was a little bit weird, wearing that funny little pointed beard!' She laughed again. ‘Goodness, I'm writing poetry—dear me! Weird, beard.' Beyond the curtained windows a particularly brilliant flash of lightning outlined the trees and, simultaneously, the telephone jangled discordantly in the distance.

In the silence that followed, Edith said, ‘Well, children, what shall we do? Oh, I know! Let's play Towie … Barney, dear, get the cards, will you? In that little drawer there …'

Barney smiled. ‘You always forget, Mrs. Woodcock,' he said, ‘that I don't know how to play Towie.'

‘Nonsense, I haven't forgotten,' she said. ‘But this afternoon, Barbara and I are going to teach you. Goodness, we have to do something, don't we, to sit out the storm? And Towie is really the simplest game in the world. There's absolutely nothing to it. It's nothing but three-handed bridge, really, with a slightly different—'

Preston Woodcock appeared in the doorway and stood, one hand on the side of the door. Barbara looked up at him and Edith too, looked up.

‘—scoring,' she finished.

‘I thought,' Preston said slowly, ‘that I heard the telephone ring.'

‘You did, darling,' Edith said brightly. ‘Just lightning hitting the wires. It's forever happening, but it won't affect the service, I'm sure. Preston? We're just talking about playing Towie, but now that you're here why don't we make it bridge instead? Come, darling, and be our fourth. Peggy's out somewhere, and—'