Down in the City (18 page)

Suddenly she called, ‘Who's there?' Her voice was harsh, unnatural.

‘It's Esther. Please let me in, Rachel.'

‘Esther?' she repeated incredulously. She gave a great sigh and rushed to get rid of the paperweight and unlock the door.

Inside, while Rachel closed and bolted it again, Esther smiled at her back, addressed it while one hand went out to the wall for support.

She said, ‘I'm so sorry to wake you up this time of night. I must have given you an awful fright. You're by yourself, aren't you?'

‘Yes.' Rachel turned to answer her, limp with relief, waiting for an explanation, but when she looked at Esther's face she asked no questions.

Esther endured the eyes on her face for a few seconds, and then said, ‘Yes…Would you mind if I stayed here tonight?' Would it be a great nuisance?' They had moved slowly into the other room, were sitting down now, and she added, ‘If I could perhaps stay here on the sofa?'

‘Yes, of course, stay. I'll make one of the beds for you.'

‘I'd rather stay here.'

Rachel folded her dressing gown over her knees, looked up at Esther, distressed. ‘Oh, what can I get you?' she said helplessly.

‘Nothing, nothing. There's nothing wrong.' She half raised a hand to her bruised face, and gave a laugh that made tears spring to Rachel's eyes. ‘I'm sure it looks much worse than it is—really.'

‘Oh,' Rachel gave an involuntary wail of fright and shock. ‘I'll make some tea,' she said and ran through to the kitchen, wiping her eyes on the sash of her gown, rubbing her left forearm across her eyes as she held the kettle under the tap.

Alone, Esther lay back on the sofa, drew a quivering breath, and the handbag she had been tightly holding slipped to the floor. ‘Oh dear…oh dear…' The mild exclamations came from her almost voicelessly. She bent her head to her cupped hands and breathed again.

The tea was never drunk, but its entry, Rachel coming in with the tray, made Esther rouse herself to say: ‘You ought to go back to bed now. You have to go to work in the morning. I really shouldn't have come like this, but I had to go somewhere. And don't,' she shook her head slightly and frowned, ‘don't think about this. You see, it was—I don't quite know what happened—but—'

Quite suddenly her composure broke and she said incredulously, ‘Stan hit me, punched me. Oh, he hurt me…Yes, yes, he did!' she protested. She stopped abruptly and looked at Rachel, awed. She stared at her for a long time, then the memory came sharply again, and she gave a little laughing moan, a hysterical mingling of pain and disbelief.

Distracted with pity, Rachel hovered around, ‘Oh, don't! Oh, don't!' she said. ‘Will you have some tea?… Oh, what can I do?'

‘He shouldn't have spoken to me like that, should he? He really shouldn't.' Then, as if the speechless Rachel had agreed with her, she said, ‘But you're not to think—he would never go to another woman, I know that—it was my brother David and the adoption…Something happened, I don't know what. He was drunk when he did this. He didn't know. He doesn't know what he's done.' After a silence she went on, painfully, more slowly now, ‘You see, I'm telling you this—because—I don't want you to think that this means—anything—that we don't love each other…'

Rachel looked blank and Esther gave a faint smile. ‘Oh, I know, I know. But you're young,' she said. And then, dropping the role of the older, wiser woman, she said confidingly, smiling, with the memory sending tears to her eyes, ‘He's always said, “I wouldn't let a cold wind blow on you, pet, if I could help it…” Don't you think?'

A sudden awareness caused her to touch her mouth almost furtively. She sat looking heavily at the thin smear of blood on her fingers, then closed her eyes.

In the middle of the floor in front of the weeping woman, Rachel looked hopelessly round the room for something that might help. This should never have happened to Esther, she thought, not to someone like her.

‘He didn't mean to…He didn't know what he was doing.' She repeated Esther's words.

‘No. He wanted to.'

It was half-past two, and Rachel's head ached. She was stiff from standing so long in the same position, but it seemed to her that if, by so much as a movement to sit down, she made Esther more aware of herself, reminded her of all that she had said, then she, Rachel, would have failed completely to act as an adult should in such a situation.

Later, before she went to bed, Rachel promised to set the alarm clock for six. Esther said, ‘I mustn't sleep. I must go upstairs early in the morning before people start moving about.'

‘Of course,' Rachel nodded, then added hesitantly, ‘Do you think you should? I mean, will it be all right? You could stay here. I'll be out all day.'

But Esther seemed agitated at the idea. ‘No, no, thank you. I must go home.'

Drugged with weariness, but unable to sleep, Rachel lay watching the sky lighten, peering through the half-light occasionally with stinging eyes to see if Esther had perhaps gone, or if she slept.

When the sky was bright she staggered dazedly through to the other room, and Esther was up at once, collecting her handbag, refusing breakfast, her desire to be gone as strong as her need, the night before, for sanctuary.

At the door, remembering, she looked at Rachel drearily. She felt that she could harbour neither hopes nor cares as to the attitude of her listener. But looking at Rachel's tired, strained face, a small sensation of relief swept over her.

‘Would you mind not…?'

‘I won't ever…'

That afternoon Esther spoke to David on the telephone in a bright social voice.

‘Stan suggested that I should ask you, David. He seems to feel that the difficulty is a technicality that you might be able to overcome?'

She wanted to scream at him: ‘What happened when he saw you? What did you do to him?' She wanted to hurt herself physically until someone answered her questions, maim herself, but instead, she held the receiver, stared at the wall, waited.

After a hesitation David's voice came, faintly shocked. ‘It was rather more than that, my dear. I'm truly sorry that I can't help you, Esther, but it would be quite impossible.' When she did not reply he said, ‘Stan said nothing more to you?'

‘No!' she said, with a touch of nervous asperity. ‘And really, David, I'm rather tired of being sent to first one and then the other to discover something that surely concerns me as much as anyone. I really won't have it,' she said weakly, with a hint of tears. She was immediately stiff with fear in case her brother had noticed.

‘You're right, of course…I'd come round to have a talk with you about it, but I feel that I should leave it to Stan.' He paused again. ‘However…I think I'd better come on Tuesday afternoon, Esther.' He added in a lower, muffled tone, ‘Until then, believe that I am sorry about the adoption, my dear, please.'

What does it matter about the adoption? she thought feverishly. It mattered once, but you've damaged something of much greater importance.

‘Very well, David,' she said flatly. ‘I'll expect you on Tuesday.'

But before Tuesday Stan had changed his mind, and given her his version of the scene in David's office. He was only half-drunk when he told her—but drunk enough to be fluent and biting. Esther reacted instinctively with absolute silence, knowing that he watched eagerly for any movement that suggested she was about to argue or contradict him.

‘Go on! Go on!' he urged, his eyes glittering with anticipation.

But she sat motionless and quiet, protecting them both from the violent scene he craved. Unable to force her into a collision that would have sheltered him, he nevertheless told her what had happened. Listening to his voice, watching his eyes, she was bereft of feeling. She was conscious only of slow, thumping heartbeats, of breathing. Looking down, she saw the body, the arms and legs of the creature she was, and knew that solidity was an illusion.

So that's it, she thought, unmoved by Stan's admission of his activities, thinking only of the way in which David had handled his knowledge. Stan quietened down after he had told her, later he went out.

All day Esther thought about it, dispassionately. So that's it. The following morning she rang her brother.

‘You needn't bother to come round tomorrow,' she said. ‘I know what happened.'

‘Oh?' David said, relieved but apprehensive. ‘I'll come just the same, Esther, to talk things over with you.'

‘No—don't.'

He tried to laugh to show that he did not take her seriously.

‘I don't want to see you, David.'

‘Surely you must agree that I have some interest in the matter? It was my duty to speak to him. Don't let this make any difference to us. This isn't like you, my dear.'

She smiled at that.

‘Are you there?'

‘You had no right to speak to him. You should have told me if you felt you had to do anything at all…What do you know of the kind of life he's had to make for himself? You've always disliked him.'

‘Esther, please…' David said helplessly. After a pause, he asked, ‘If I am not to come to see you, may I ring again in a day or so?'

‘If you must. What are you going to do in the meantime,' she asked in a voice that startled them both, ‘hold a family conference to discuss Stan's shortcomings? Arrange a divorce? Try to have him deported?' She scored the cream-painted telephone table with a long thumbnail in her distaste for herself and David and Stan and her remarks. ‘All right, David,' she sighed. ‘I'm sorry. Ring when you want to. There's nothing else to say just now, is there?'

‘Goodbye, Esther. I hope this hasn't made any trouble between you. That wasn't my intention. But I was right to tackle him. I think he may take some notice even yet—and then you'll realise what a good thing it was that I did…'

At first Esther moved the listening end of the receiver from her ear, then she hung up. She went from room to room and opened the windows wide, for the air was stale and reeked of spirits. The Monday morning mess seemed worse than usual—dead flowers, empty bottles, spotty carpet. Stan didn't eat very tidily when he was drinking; there was grease, probably butter, on the arm of his chair. Yes, but he had been sober this morning, and quiet, and she had snapped and worried at him. Oh, it wasn't surprising; but she, as the one with some knowledge and control, was the one to exercise these qualities. She was the one who should try.

She wandered onto the balcony and looked over to the tall buildings and busy, blue harbour. The sun soothed her and made her shiver. She sat down tiredly and gazed into the sky. After a time the fingers of one hand pressed against her forehead and she leaned forward to ease the pain in her chest.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Vi looked up at the reflection in the mirror and put down her powder-puff.

‘Well!' she said, breathless with shock. ‘You've got a nerve! What do you think you're doing here?'

‘Your day off, isn't it?'

‘What's it to you if it is? Do you know just how many weeks it is since you took any interest in my time off?' she asked bitterly. ‘I do.'

Stan gazed back in a considering fashion, but kept silent.

‘Well! Where've you been? Make a few excuses,' she said, powdering her face again to hide her agitation.

‘Binge,' he said laconically.

Vi gave a short laugh. ‘For weeks? I never noticed you keeping clear of me before because you'd had too much.' But she turned round and looked at him closely. ‘How did you get in here, anyhow?'

‘Key. You gave me one, remember?'

Vi looked at him for a moment and took a deep breath. ‘Do
I
remember?' She stretched out first one leg and then the other to straighten the seams of her stockings. ‘That's good! Do
I
remember?' She smoothed her thick blonde hair with rough, jerking hands. ‘Oh, God,' she cried, ‘I remember too damned many things—that's my trouble. I wish I'd never seen you again after that last time, Stan. If you'd thought of anyone but yourself you'd never have gone away, or you'd never have come back. But you don't care about me. You don't care how often you come or go as long as I'm here when you want me. It doesn't matter what happens to me in between. I'm unlucky. I'm different. I can't forget people as easily as you.'

Her clenched fist went to her heart instinctively, to beat against it, to convince him that she meant what she said, that she spoke what she felt, that she was talking about herself, Vi Rogers, and that he had to listen.

‘We've been together a lot over the years. I know you. I'm used to you. I've never expected much from you or kidded myself…but I'm human, too, you're not the only one in the world, and when you started with me again like that, you shouldn't have gone away. Though why I
care
…'

Holding his head in his hands, Stan listened to her gloomily, muttering to himself. When she stopped he said weakly, ‘Be yourself, Vi! You're never short of—' he caught her eye and finished, ‘friends.'

Vi sat at the dressing table, her back to the mirror, watching him. At his words she stood up. ‘That's just as well, isn't it? Go away, Stan. Go away, and don't come back. I've had enough of you.'

There's something about her, Stan thought, surprised as always, after a separation from Vi, to find that he had missed her, that his feelings were, after all, more deeply involved than he had remembered. And he had been so convinced that coming here today was an act designed to even things up with David Prescott. That now appeared to be only partly true.

He sat down on the bed and watched her blow her nose and wipe her eyes. She combed her hair and fixed her make-up. When she had finished she turned and looked at him for a moment or two, trying to guess his intentions.