Blue Bedroom and Other Stories (29 page)

“Frantic.” He looked at the salad and ate a bit of lettuce. “In this for supper?”

“Yes, and an omelette.”

“Frugal fare.” He leaned against the table. “I suppose we're saving up for tomorrow night?”

“Don't talk about it. Did you see Mr. Fairhurst today?”

“No, he's been out of town. Where are the children?”

“Evie's bathing them. Can't you hear? She stayed on. She'd baked a cake for us and it's still in the oven. And Jack's at market.”

Henry yawned. “I'll go up and tell her to leave the water in. I could do with a bath.”

*   *   *

Alison emptied the dishwasher and then went upstairs too. She felt, for some reason, exhausted. It was an unfamiliar treat to be able to potter around her bedroom, to feel peaceful and unhurried. She took off the clothes she had been wearing all day, opened her cupboard and reached for the velvet housecoat that Henry had given her last Christmas. It was not a garment she had worn very often, there not being many occasions in her busy life when it seemed suitable. It was lined with silk, and had a comforting and luxurious feel about it. She did up the buttons, tied the sash, slipped her feet into flat gold slippers left over from some previous summer, and went across the landing to the children's room to say goodnight. Janey was in her cot, on the verge of sleep. Evie sat on the edge of Larry's bed, and was just about to finish the bedtime book. Larry's mouth was plugged with his thumb, his eyes drooped. Alison stooped to kiss him.

“See you in the morning,” she told him. He nodded, and his eyes went back to Evie. He wanted to hear the end of the story. Alison left them and went downstairs. She picked up Henry's evening paper and took it into the sitting room to see what was on television that evening. As she did this, she heard a car come up the lane from the main road. It turned in at their gate. Headlights flashed beyond the drawn curtains. Alison lowered the paper. Gravel crunched as the car stopped outside their front door. Then the bell rang. She dropped the newspaper onto the sofa and went to open the door.

Outside, parked on the gravel, was a large black Daimler. And on the doorstep, looking both expectant and festive, stood Mr. and Mrs. Fairhurst.

Her first instinct was to slam the door in their faces, scream, count to ten, and then open the door and find them gone.

But they were, undoubtedly, there, Mrs. Fairhurst was smiling. Alison smiled, too. She could feel the smile, creasing her cheeks, like something that had been slapped on her face.

“I'm afraid,” said Mrs. Fairhurst, “that we're a little bit early. We were so afraid of losing the way.”

“No. Not a bit.” Alison's voice came out at least two octaves higher than it usually did. She'd got the date wrong. She'd told Mrs. Fairhurst the wrong day. She'd made the most appalling, most ghastly mistake. “Not a bit early.” She stood back, opening the door. “Do come in.”

They did so, and Alison closed the door behind them. They began to shed their coats.

I can't tell them. Henry will have to tell them. He'll have to give them a drink and tell them that there isn't anything to eat because I thought they were coming tomorrow night.

Automatically, she went to help Mrs. Fairhurst with her fur.

“Did … did you have a good drive?”

“Yes, very good,” said Mr. Fairhurst. He wore a dark suit and a splendid tie. “Henry gave me excellent instructions.”

“And of course there wasn't too much traffic.” Mrs. Fairhurst smelt of Chanel No. 5. She adjusted the chiffon collar of her dress and touched her hair which had, like Alison's, been freshly done. It was silvery and elegant, and she wore diamond earrings and a beautiful brooch at the neck of her dress.

“What a charming house. How clever of you and Henry to find it.”

“Yes, we love it.” They were ready. They stood smiling at her. “Do come in by the fire.”

She led the way, into her warm, firelit, but flowerless sitting room, swiftly gathered up the newspaper from the sofa and pushed it beneath a pile of magazines. She moved an armchair closer to the fire. “Do sit down, Mrs. Fairhurst. I'm afraid Henry was a little late back from the office. He'll be down in just a moment.”

She should offer them a drink, but the drinks were in the kitchen cupboard and it would seem both strange and rude to go out and leave them on their own. And supposing they asked for dry martinis? Henry always did the drinks, and Alison didn't know how to make a dry martini.

Mrs. Fairhurst lowered herself comfortably into the chair. She said, “Jock had to go to Birmingham this morning, so I don't suppose he's seen Henry today—have you, dear?”

“No, I didn't get into the office.” He stood in front of the fire and looked about him appreciatively. “What a pleasant room this is.”

“Oh, yes. Thank you.”

“Do you have a garden?”

“Yes. About an acre. It's really too big.” She looked about her frantically, and her eyes lighted upon the cigarette box. She picked it up and opened it. There were four cigarettes inside. “Would you like a cigarette?”

But Mrs. Fairhurst did not smoke, and Mr. Fairhurst said that if Alison did not mind, he would smoke one of his own cigars. Alison said that she did not mind at all, and put the box back on the table. A number of panic-stricken images flew through her mind. Henry, still lolling in his bath; the tiny salad which was all that she had made for supper; the dining room, icy cold and inhospitable.

“Do you do the garden by yourselves?”

“Oh … oh, yes. We're trying. It was in rather a mess when we bought the house.”

“And you have two little children?” This was Mrs. Fairhurst, gallantly keeping the ball of conversation going.

“Yes. Yes, they're in bed. I have a friend—Evie. She's the farmer's sister. She put them to bed for me.”

What else could one say? Mr. Fairhurst had lighted his cigar, and the room was filled with its expensive fragrance. What else could one do? Alison took a deep breath. “I'm sure you'd both like a drink. What can I get for you?”

“Oh, how lovely.” Mrs. Fairhurst glanced about her, and saw no evidence of either bottles or wineglasses, but if she was put out by this, graciously gave no sign. “I think a glass of sherry would be nice.”

“And you, Mr. Fairhurst?”

“The same for me.”

She blessed them both silently for not asking for martinis. “We … we've got a bottle of Tio Pepe…?”

“What a treat!”

“The only thing is … would you mind very much if I left you on your own for a moment? Henry—he didn't have time to do a drink tray.”

“Don't worry about us,” she was assured. “We're very happy by this lovely fire.”

Alison withdrew, closing the door gently behind her. It was all more awful than anything one could possibly have imagined. And they were so nice, darling people, which only made it all the more dreadful. They were behaving quite perfectly, and she had had neither the wit nor the intelligence to remember which night she had asked them for.

But there was no time to stand doing nothing but hate herself. Something had to be done. Silently, on slippered feet, she sped upstairs. The bathroom door stood open, as did their bedroom door. Beyond this in a chaos of abandoned bathtowels, socks, shoes, and shirts, stood Henry, dressing himself with the speed of light.

“Henry, they're here.”

“I know.” He pulled a clean shirt over his head, stuffed it into his trousers, did up the zipper, and reached for a necktie. “Saw them from the bathroom window.”

“It's the wrong night. I must have made a mistake.”

“I've already gathered that.” Sagging at the knees in order to level up with the mirror, he combed his hair.

“You'll have to tell them.”

“I can't tell them.”

“You mean, we've got to give them dinner?”

“Well, we've to to give them something.”

“What am I going to
do?
”

“Have they had a drink?”

“No.”

“Well, give them a drink right away, and we'll try to sort the rest of the evening out after that.”

They were talking in whispers. He wasn't even looking at her properly.

“Henry, I'm sorry.”

He was buttoning his waistcoat. “It can't be helped. Just go down and give them a drink.”

*   *   *

She flew back downstairs, paused for a moment at the closed sitting-room door, and heard from behind it the companionable murmur of married chat. She blessed them once again for being the sort of people who always had things to say to each other, and made for the kitchen. There was the cake, fresh from the oven. There was the salad. And these was Evie, her hat on, her coat buttoned, and just about off. “You've got visitors,” she remarked, looking pleased.

“They're not visitors. It's the Fairhursts. Henry's chairman and his wife.”

Evie stopped looking pleased. “But they're coming tomorrow.”

“I've made some ghastly mistake. They've come tonight. And there's nothing to eat, Evie.” Her voice broke. “Nothing.”

Evie considered. She recognised a crisis when she saw one. Crises were the stuff of life to Evie. Motherless lambs, egg-bound hens, smoking chimneys, moth in the church kneelers—in her time, she had dealt with them all. Nothing gave Evie more satisfaction than rising to the occasion. Now, she glanced at the clock, and then took off her hat. “I'll stay,” she announced, “and give you a hand.”

“Oh, Evie—will you
really?
”

“The children are asleep. That's one problem out of the way.” She unbuttoned her coat. “Does Henry know?”

“Yes, he's nearly dressed.”

“What did he say?”

“He said, give them a drink.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” asked Evie.

They found a tray, some glasses, the bottle of Tio Pepe. Evie manhandled ice out of the icetray. Alison found nuts.

“The dining room,” said Alison. “I'd meant to light the fire. It's icy.”

“I'll get the little paraffin stove going. It smells a bit but it'll warm the room quicker than anything else. And I'll draw the curtains and switch on the hot plate.” She opened the kitchen door. “Quick, now, in you go.”

Alison carried the tray across the hall, fixed a smile on her face, opened the door and made her entrance. The Fairhursts were sitting by the fire, looking relaxed and cheerful, but Mr. Fairhurst got to his feet and came to help Alison, pulling forward a low table and taking the tray from her hands.

“We were just wishing,” said Mrs. Fairhurst, “that our daughter would follow your example and move out into the country. They've a dear little flat in the Fulham Road, but she's having her second baby in the summer, and I'm afraid it's going to be very cramped.”

“It's quite a step to take…” Alison picked up the sherry bottle, but Mr. Fairhurst said, “Allow me,” and took it from her and poured the drinks himself, handing a glass to his wife. “… But Henry…”

As she said his name, she heard his footsteps on the stair, the door opened, and there he was. She had expected him to burst into the room, out of breath, thoroughly fussed, and with some button or cuff-link missing. But his appearance was neat and immaculate—as though he had spent at least half an hour in getting changed instead of the inside of two minutes. Despite the nightmare of what was happening, Alison found time to be filled with admiration for her husband. He never ceased to surprise her, and his composure was astonishing. She began to feel, herself, a little calmer. It was, after all, Henry's future, his career, that was at stake. If he could take this evening in his stride, then surely Alison could do the same. Perhaps, together, they could carry it off.

Henry was charming. He apologised for his late appearance, made sure that his guests were comfortable, poured his own glass of sherry, and settled himself, quite at ease, in the middle of the sofa. He and the Fairhursts began to talk about Birmingham. Alison laid down her glass, murmured something about seeing to dinner, and slipped out of the room.

Across the hall, she could hear Evie struggling with the old paraffin heater. She went into the kitchen and tied on an apron. There was the salad. And what else? No time to unfreeze the prawns, deal with the filet of beef, or make Mother's lemon soufflé. But there was the deep freeze, filled as usual with the sort of food her children would eat, and not much else. Fish fingers, frozen chips, ice cream. She opened its lid and peered inside. Saw a couple of rock-hard chickens, three loaves of sliced bread, two iced lollies on sticks.

Oh, God, please let me find something. Please let there be something I can give the Fairhursts to eat.

She thought of all the panic-stricken prayers which in the course of her life she had sent winging upwards. Long ago, she had decided that somewhere, up in the wild blue yonder, there simply had to be a computer, otherwise how could God keep track of the millions of billions of requests for aid and assistance that had been coming at Him through all eternity?

Please let there be something for dinner.

Tring, tring, went the computer, and there was the answer. A plastic carton of Chile con Carne, which Alison had made and stored a couple of months ago. That wouldn't take more than fifteen minutes to unfreeze, stirred in a pot over the hot plate, and with it they could have boiled rice and the salad.

Investigation proved that there was no rice, only a half-empty packet of Tagliatelli. Chili con Carne and Tagliatelli with a crisp green salad. Said quickly, it didn't sound so bad.

And for starters…? Soup. There was a single can of consommé, not enough for four people. She searched her shelves for something to go with it, and came up with a jar of kangaroo tail soup that had been given to them as a joke two Christmases ago. She filled her arms with the carton, the packet, the tin, and the jar, closed the lid of the deep freeze, and put everything onto the kitchen table. Evie appeared, carrying the paraffin can, and with a sooty smudge on her nose.