Down in the City (20 page)

‘Great minds!' sang Laura. ‘Shows we've both got good taste.'

It was time to go to town, and they were on the point of leaving when Cassie remembered a letter she had to post. Laura waited in the dim hallway while she went back. She could feel a current of air coming through the half-open front door.

London, Paris, Venice. Her musings were broken up by the sound of voices, and she looked across the oblique angle of the landing, idly curious.

‘My God!' she exclaimed under her breath, moving back a little. She stared.

‘Stan Peterson and his girl friend!' She was sure of it! Her mouth curved in a deep smile. She felt incredibly enlivened.

Wait till I tell Bill, she thought. And hard on that: I wonder if Esther knows about this? I'll bet one hell of a lot she doesn't.

They had gone by the time Cassie came back with her letter, but the smile lingered on Laura's face. Cassie returned it.

‘By the way, I think I saw your neighbour going out. A blonde piece. What's she do?'

‘Well,' Cassie said, keeping an eye on the traffic as they crossed the road, ‘she works at the Cross Keys—I don't know if you know it—a hotel round the corner there.'

‘A barmaid?' Oh, it was too much of a cliché, and yet it somehow seemed so
right
for Stan. ‘They must be well paid these days if they can afford flats like yours.'

‘No,' Cassie said vaguely, ‘she's not a barmaid, she—'

‘I'll bet she's not.'

They ran for a tram, jumped in and found seats before Cassie said, ‘No, what I was going to say about Mrs Rogers was that she's a part-owner. She helps to manage it. She has always been around hotels. Her father used to own one up north.'

‘O-oh!'

‘It's just that her hair's touched-up,' Cassie said. ‘She's been very nice to me since I moved in.'

‘I seem to have misjudged the poor woman. She's got a husband, has she?'

Laura paid their fares and the conductor moved off down the corridor.

‘No, I don't think so. She's a widow, or else they parted a long time ago…'

‘I see.' Laura sighed with respect for Mrs Rogers' possible widowhood. After a moment she said, ‘Still, I suppose she won't ever be short of company. That kind of woman never is, eh, Cass?'

‘I suppose not. I don't know. I like her.'

‘It's nice to have nice neighbours,' Laura said, subdued, hoping that her companion had not taken her last remark as containing undertones.

‘Here we are—Elizabeth Street.' They left the tram and disappeared into a crowded department store.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Stan sat in the car outside Romney Court waiting for Esther. He felt slightly sick. His skin was an unhealthy yellowish colour, and his mouth twisted as he ran his tongue over his teeth. He was gazing through the windscreen blindly as he had done for the past ten minutes, conscious of nothing but thickness in head and uncertainty in stomach, when suddenly his eyes focused.

Rachel came out into the street, walked a few steps, turned at the hooting of the horn and saw with some surprise that Stan was signalling her over to the car.

‘Like a lift into town? We're going in a minute. Esther's got an early appointment with the hairdresser. Come on, get in,' he said affably.

Desperately unwilling to be alone with them, but not knowing how to refuse his offer, Rachel climbed into the back of the car and sat very stiffly with her white-gloved hands folded neatly over her handbag.

‘Bob and Pauline not back yet?' Stan asked, increasing her alarm. He seldom spoke to Rachel; she had always felt herself to be invisible in his company.

‘Tomorrow,' she croaked. She cleared her throat and said again, ‘They'll be in tomorrow afternoon.'

‘Good, good,' Stan said, watching Esther cross the road. ‘I—er—asked young Rachel here if she'd like a lift,' he called as if he were warning her.

‘That was nice.' She settled herself into the seat and the car moved off. ‘How are you, Rachel?' she said coolly, glancing round into the girl's face, not looking at her. ‘I haven't seen you for weeks.'

‘No,' Rachel murmured, abashed by her tone, conscious that they had not met since the night of the quarrel. ‘I'm not at home very much,' she said, hoping that Esther would understand from this that she had neither avoided, nor felt herself avoided.

‘Ha-ha!' Stan laughed falsely. ‘Out with your Italian boy friend? Does he take you to shows, or what?'

‘Yes, we like to see plays at some of the little theatres. They do some interesting things.' She looked at the back of Esther's head, and then at Stan's, nervously. The atmosphere seemed to ring as it does when high-tension cables scream above a lonely road.

Stan laughed again, apparently finding nothing to say on the subject of little theatres; instead, he put added concentration into his driving, gesturing with careful concern, indicating to his passengers that he was occupied, that he had withdrawn from their company.

‘You're lucky.' Esther's voice shocked the silence. ‘I seldom have the pleasure of my husband's company at night until it's much too late to think of going out.'

No one spoke.

‘Of course I don't ask where he has been. I know he's a very busy man, an important man, Rachel,' she said, involving the girl more by speaking her name. ‘I know that I should be glad to sit by myself day and night, waiting for him to come home.'

There was another silence until Stan said, ‘Haven't seen you down at the pool lately, Rae?'

Before she could answer, Esther cut in coldly, ‘You haven't been there yourself, unless I am mistaken. He has rather a poor memory,' she called over her shoulder. ‘You must excuse him.'

‘We usually go to one of the beaches. I haven't been to the pool for a long time,' Rachel said, hoping that the accuracy of the guess would atone for the exposure. But she wondered immediately why she should care about protecting Stan. Of all the people she knew he seemed least in need, and least deserving, of help. Then she saw that it was Esther she was trying to defend, that it was fear of seeing Esther diminished that made her refuse to act as a sounding board for her pitiful retaliation. Whatever should be said between them,
this
was not right.

Esther shrank with shame at the sound of her own voice, but at the same time the desire that compelled her to speak flourished with angry joy. Too many nights of silent fear and humiliation had given birth to this voice; she was unable to silence it. Gathering sustenance from the memories of nights spent listening for Stan's footsteps, of hours spent wondering whether he would be raving, or kind, as he still could be, this voice overruled all others. But now, as it sometimes did, the violated centre hinted at rebellion; the sensation of it surged in her chest, lighting momentary panic.

Rachel started to tell a long story about the latest mishap at the office. A bundle of books had been mislaid. She was so depressed by strain and pity that the words had little meaning for her, and could have none, she knew, for Esther and Stan. But she gabbled on, mouthing inanities, her eyes flickering from one to the other.

‘It isn't sensible to make such a commotion, because if the books are lost, the firm is insured, and in a few weeks Mr Butler will have forgotten all about this and be worrying about some new disaster. We have them regularly.' Her voice faded.

‘Mmm. Too bad,' said Stan, who had been listening with the same exaggerated attention that he had previously given to his driving. Esther had been successfully silenced, and sat quiet until, at last, Rachel left the car and went into the office building.

With a sigh of relief she decided that it was much easier to endure Mr Butler's erratic temper than the threatening attention, the complex, unhappy emotions left behind in the car.

She wondered why it should be so as the automatic lift carried her, its only passenger, silently up the chill, narrow shaft.

Perhaps because Mr Butler's is avoidable. A reasonable man would be calm about the constant crises of business life. But Esther and Stan—I don't know—from what I've seen neither of them is reasonable, but the thing is: would it matter if they were? Would they still behave as they did just now?

She let herself into the cloakroom and combed her hair in front of the long mirror. Again she thought, I don't know, putting herself off because for a moment she was too interested in a new idea, almost too shocked by it, to answer. Reason would make no difference.

So it isn't omnipotent when feeling is involved? But why should it be, invariably? Surely one is as valuable as the other, and has its allotted moment of supremacy in any situation? Perhaps a perpetual balance…?

No. Balance and stalemate seemed synonymous.

But why do I feel that I've just realised that? I knew when I was being organised by Mrs Maitland that I often looked stupid but it felt right, so I didn't care. Anyway there was reason in it…But those two…

A young voice called, ‘Hi! You're early. I thought I'd be first.'

Rachel whirled round. ‘Oh, Stella! Yes, some people gave me a lift.' And thoughts of reason and feeling gave way to a discussion of Mr Butler's lack of both.

Coming down from the office at one o'clock the lift was crammed with girls. Tall girls and short, mostly slim, mostly pretty, all fresh and nicely dressed. They all read the weekly articles in the women's magazines which exhorted them to scrupulous cleanliness, smartness, spick-and-spanness. They all drank milk and orange juice, eschewed sweets and pastries. They lived for the evenings and the long weekends spent in the sun and air.

On this weekday they stood in the lift, warm bare arms touching, white gloves on, bags clutched, high-heeled feet eager to be out and off down the street to the store where, in imagination, they were already considering the jewel-coloured net, the golden sandals, the lipsticks, the dozens of such necessities that burnt their salaries. If there was time when they returned to the office they might eat a smooth, green-skinned Granny Smith's apple and a salad sandwich, but if not, there was the brown-paper parcel in the bottom drawer of the desk, the sight of which at intervals all afternoon more than compensated.

The folding doors crashed open and they clattered along the fawn-and-white marbled corridor.

‘Are you coming with me till I change these shoes?' Stella asked, as she and Rachel stood side by side in the doorway, watching the hurrying crowds.

Rachel thought not. She felt hungry and the idea of standing by while Stella waited to be served, and then explained to some disenchanted woman that the shoes hurt her and couldn't be the right size, did not appeal. She said so, and Stella went off, justly agreeing that it wasn't much of a way of spending lunchtime.

As Rachel shook off her office thoughts and prepared to launch herself into the street, Mrs Maitland came hurrying up, out of breath, brilliant with pleasure and promise.

‘I'm glad I got here in time, Rae. I had to come in to do some shopping and I thought we'd have lunch together—unless you've planned something else.'

No, oh no, there was nothing else. Rachel felt her heart beating gaily at the unexpectedness of her luck as she smiled into Laura's eyes.

‘What about Luigi, though? I thought you might be going with him?'

‘He has this administrative job helping Mr Butler, now. I don't see him very much during the day. He's often away.'

‘But it's still going strong?' Laura persisted.

Put off by the inelegant expression, looking on it as a kind of blasphemy, Rachel nevertheless had to say, ‘Yes.'

It was clear to her that Mrs Maitland had not come to meet her to talk about Luigi, but she knew that it was her custom to talk to each person she met, first of all about themselves, or whatever she knew would interest them more: a harmless, even agreeable, social habit viewed by Rachel, when turned on her, with stark dislike. But then, to Rachel—unable to disentangle tact from hypocrisy, frailty from deliberate fraud—all of Laura's social habits were reprehensible.

Overcome with gloom at being treated to her most conventional approach she now put one foot in front of the other and saw nothing.

‘Did you notice how well he and Bill got on the other night at dinner?' Laura said. ‘Did you know that you two are to be our first weekend visitors when the house is finished? They fixed it up between them.'

‘No! I didn't know that. He must have forgotten to tell me.'

‘We both liked him very much.'

‘Did you?'

Rachel's determination to believe that this was conventional small talk dissolved. Wanting confirmation of Laura's approval, she could not restrain the eager turn of her head.

They pushed through the revolving door of the restaurant and a minute later looked at the menu.

‘Have something interesting,' Laura said. ‘It's my party.'

Eyeing them coldly, the waitress wrote on her pad and moved on to the next table.

‘Well, now…' Laura removed her gloves, fixed a kindly, tolerant gaze on Rachel and leaned forward. She was about to speak when the girl opened her handbag. Her expression changed.

‘That's new, isn't it, Rae?'

‘Yes, do you like it? I bought it in a place in the Imperial Arcade.'

‘It's gorgeous. It's just reminded me: that's something else I'll have to put on my shopping list.'

The square, low-ceilinged room was cool, full of pale light, subdued voices. The tables were all occupied, mostly by women, and the walls were lined with mirrors so cut that Rachel, as she sat in her corner seat, looked down a long passage of her reflected face, scores of images of her face, diminishing, but ending where? Laura scanned the walls for acquaintances and lit a cigarette.

Suddenly she said, ‘I saw you leaving with the Petersons this morning.'