Holiday (25 page)

Yet words, codes, signals were his business.

Carol and Tricia, small now, trudged on as if for the south coast. Why, if they intended walking so far, did they not stay on the promenade. They liked sand under their feet. Their exchange with him jarred them. They’d no idea what they exactly intended. They were escaping from him.

He returned to his car, began to back out, but stopped to fling a short anger of words with another motorist who could not wait until he was clear.

‘Keep out of the bloody way,’ he shouted.

A white, middle-aged woman shrank from him, behind her protective glass, and whispered to her upright husband, who did as he was bid. Fisher felt the better for it.

In the great foyer of the Frankland Towers there was little overt flurry, though trunks were piled, and a few guests were escorted through the glass doors. The superior young woman on reception smiled, immediately rang for Vernon, hoped he’d make himself comfortable, pointed gracefully to seats. He had not long to wait.

His father-in-law stepped from the lift, wished him good-morning and said they’d talk upstairs. They exchanged no other words.

‘Sit down.’ Fisher was gestured into one of two armchairs by a window which overlooked three car parks, a main road and a row of bungalows. Immediately he began to work out the lie of the land, the name of the street, an impossibility, though he could tell by shadows that he was facing west. During this little exercise he paid no attention to Vernon, who waited, taking off his jacket, replaced it on a coathanger in the wardrobe when he saw Fisher had offered some token of interest. Then he took a position, that indicated the formality of his movements, opposite.

‘This is the best place for privacy.’

‘Is Irene not here?’

‘No. She’s leaving it to me.’

‘Man to man?’

‘If you please.’ He did not seem to resent Fisher’s tone. ‘You’re calling in on Meg later today?’

‘She’s told you.’

‘I’ve spent a fortune,’ Vernon said, pacifically, rubbing his hands flat palm to palm, ‘this last few days on telephone calls. The latest not half an hour ago.’

Fisher said nothing.

‘I can’t claim to have made much progress. I’ve too much experience in these affairs to boast, but at least she and I can exchange rational sentences about you, which is more than was possible a fortnight ago.’ Again he waited, but without exasperation as the son-in-law failed to answer. ‘Whether such will be the case when she sees you this afternoon, I don’t know. But she and I have discussed this at length. I want you to understand that.’

‘Right.’

‘One of the curious features is that she in no way blames you. That’s hopeful.’

‘Does she want me back?’

‘Just take it easy, will you? This is no time for, no time . . . I’d have thought you’d . . .’ He broke off, self-deprecating, handsome. ‘I’ve spoken to her for a total of several hours, and yet I have to admit that I have not found out why you separated. Meg can’t tell me. Can you?’

‘We quarrelled.’

‘Many people do.’

‘I asked her if she wanted me to go. She said “yes”. And she seemed serious. I thought it over, decided I’d had enough and packed my trunks.’

‘Is that ever so sensible?’ Vernon spoke slowly.

‘It’s how I felt.’

‘I don’t mean that. It’s your account that I find unsatisfactory. “Take it or leave it” isn’t very useful in negotiation. You see, Edwin, I want you to think hard about this, especially at this stage. I don’t want you to close your mind.’

‘Go on.’

‘I’ll accept that you and Meg were getting across one another, and to a considerable extent. And, given this, I can see how attractive a break, a separation, might seem. Now you’ve had a few weeks apart you should begin to ask yourself if this is to be a permanent thing. Look, I don’t think I’m maligning you when I say that I don’t honestly believe you’ve worked really hard at this. Meg hadn’t. That I can say.’

‘Why do you . . .?’

‘One minute. There’s an emotional block. You quarrel, nag, blow up and leave, and you’re unwilling to, to probe any more deeply, because of the hurt.’

‘I’ll speak for myself,’ Fisher said. ‘I’ve done nothing else this last three weeks.’

‘You think you have,’ Vernon answered. ‘You’ve felt the smart, the insults. If I can use a metaphor, you’ve not drawn back from the door of reconciliation. Not at all. But you’ve not tried to open it. You’ve padlocked it even closer.’ He raised a hand. ‘Even when you think you’re doing the opposite. The trouble in these cases is that people are so tangled emotionally that they are incapable of seeing straight.’

‘I don’t think that’s my case.’

‘Maybe not, maybe not. It was certainly Meg’s.’

Vernon coughed slightly, as if to order, and ran a neat finger round the inside of his immaculate collar. ‘And given this inability, this blindness, if I may so put it, a perfectly sensible means of therapy such as a fortnight apart becomes a permanent rift, by delay, by default, because the patients fail to see they are now cured, or at least convalescent.’

‘Let’s have the prescription, then.’

‘You rush, Edwin, you rush. For a philosopher you’re precipitate. Have you any feelings of guilt?’

‘Of course.’

‘Apart from your treatment of Meg? Have you been unfaithful?’ Vernon looked up, blue eye mild, mouth almost at a simper. ‘I know you want to tell me that it’s no business of mine. And neither is it. But I’ve often found that one partner’s feeling of guilt leads him, or her, to neglect, to torment, even to accuse the other, who may be quite innocent.’

‘I’ve no qualms on that score.’

‘I’m glad.’ He did not appear so; the lips were thin with reproach. ‘You’re quite honest, Edwin? I’m sorry to press you.’

‘I have not,’ Fisher answered, grim now, ‘committed adultery.’

‘But you’ve thought about it?’

‘Everybody thinks about it.’

‘I doubt if that is so. But your admission may be important. To you. Not to me. I shall not sort this matter out. You must do that for yourself.’

Fisher considered a text. ‘Whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her hath committed adultery with her already in his heart.’ He could hear his father’s high-pitched voice whanging this pearl at the family when Arthur had been condemning the irregular life of one of the chapel congregation, a man Elsie had mildly defended. Edwin already knew what adultery was; grammar school education had seen to that, and his father’s quotation had by no means seemed either apposite or clinching in the argument, but the odd words had struck from that time in his mind. That whosoever . . . Might as well be hanged, then, for a sheep as a lamb.

He had looked at some of his students in that way, a colleague’s wife, a secretary at the university club, but he’d done nothing. Risk did not appeal, and none of these women had gone out of her way, and thus temptation withered, and he went back to his wife, a superior catch. Opportunity had never been great; he might easily have slipped this week with Sandra Smith.

‘I can also tell you,’ Vernon preluded again, ‘and I do so with some pleasure, that Meg has not misconducted herself in that way. That removes a complicating feature.’

Fisher shrugged, rudely.

‘But as I am so uncertain how the pair of you will react, I would like, if I may without impropriety, to enquire how, no, perhaps what you intend to say to her this afternoon.’

‘You’ve presumably asked her the same question?’

‘I have.’

‘What did she say?’

‘She said that she’d listen to any proposal you made, and then think about it.’

‘There was nothing positive from her?’

‘No.’ A long sound, repeated, echoed. ‘No. No. Not really. Of course, you know Meg. She gives the impression of working from the instant, playing it off the cuff. Not that I’m sure she’d as spontaneous as she pretends. Her general mode of behaviour is often worked out.’

‘Is it so, now?’

‘Guessing, yes. I’d say it is. She’s willing to have you back.’

‘What makes you so sure?’

‘Sure?’ Vernon raised voice and chin. ‘Sure? My dear boy. I am only surmising. I’ve talked to many women in her predicament. No one can be certain. But that’s why I want to learn your line of approach. Not to warn her. To guide you. Do you want to go back to her?’

‘Damned if I know.’

The answer burst from him, like a cough from a dust-choked man. His pride begged her return; he needed her body’s beauty, but he’d shouted this little slogan of defiance because he did not know how he stood, felt himself belittled, found himself wanting.

‘But you hope to find out this afternoon?’ No hint of temper; urbanity all.

‘I don’t know what I want.’

‘I see. I see.’

‘Is that good or bad?’

‘We are not scoring points in a debate, Edwin. I can’t tell you. I wish I had the perfect solution, but I haven’t.’

‘I’m not your choice as a son-in-law, am I?’

‘Nobody is good enough for a man’s daughter. You’re intelligent, and presentable. But headstrong sometimes, and at others hesitant, vacillating. I’ve been trying to work out all this week why you’ve taken this holiday here. I’ve no idea.’

‘Neither have I.’

‘I don’t believe that.’

They both grinned, foxily, better pleased, and for the next half hour Vernon suggested approaches, made slow statements about Meg, enjoyed himself. At the end of the time, Fisher against his will believed that his wife wanted him back, and had expressed his own willingness to comply. Without dragooning, smarming oil or obvious hypocrisy, Vernon had managed all this, and as soon as his son-in-law had left the old rogue would be on the blower again reporting some comforting version to his daughter. Fisher said as much, watching the deepening wrinkles round Vernon’s eyes as smiles creased to chuckles, crashed to laughter.

‘But, of course, of course.’ Vernon crossed his legs. ‘How would you describe our conference this morning?’

‘Inconsequential. Haphazard.’

‘That’s about right.’

Fisher smirked agreement. That described the week here, among strangers, trotting on sand, riding the flat roads, eating the chops and chips, the tinned fruit and ice cream. Nor had he reached a conclusion about his marriage. He had not expected to. Meg was enigmatic only so far as he was obtuse, and the idea that this casual communication with chance-met individuals in this town should offer the possibility of marital peace approached the ridiculous. And yet.

His father.

That man he’d disliked, as an adolescent, who’d left him money, who worked and joked had now been elevated into a totem. Visit Dad’s town and all will be healed. Put bluntly like that he could laugh the notion away, but when one staggered one neither saw nor spoke with honesty. And this man is now become a god. His father, Alfred, moustache and riddling questions, squeaky voice, certainty of right and wrong, presided over this week-long rite, the recapture of the bride.

Vernon talked again.

‘We have got nowhere, Edwin. Perhaps it’s as well. I can’t decide for you. There is, however, one thing I should like to have said before you leave.’

‘Say it, then.’

Vernon rubbed his hands, loudly, and when he spoke, did so blandly.

‘This afternoon when you meet your wife you will see a frightened, disheartened, unhappy girl. However she appears to you. Please don’t forget that. Frightened of the future. Uncertain. Needing help. Neglected.’

‘How would you describe me, then?’

‘Short of imagination. Self-regarding. In this matter, selfish.’

‘Balls.’

‘Be honest with yourself. Do you love her?’

‘What’s love?’ Fisher asked, suddenly down in the mouth.

‘You would not ask me that question if you loved her.’

‘Sometimes,’ Fisher said, ‘I wonder if you can hear what you’re saying. You tongue words like a tom-cat at the cream. Haven’t you any concern with reality?’

‘Now I’ve annoyed you. That is bad. You find me mealy-mouthed. Dripping unctuous Victorian orotundities. And yet they mean something. These words try to make you grasp what is happening. They wouldn’t be those you choose. The picture they present are not the side of life you would see. And yet, Edwin, they represent a truth of sorts. Your temper’s rising. You want to spit. You despise me as an oily hypocrite, and yet I am speaking truth, my truth, as I grasp it. That girl is certainly the same woman who plagued and taunted you into running away, who left you sore with her silences, or wounded with her barbs, but she does it from ignorance, and your neglect, and the lack of love, a simplicity of love that demonstrates itself in a kiss, a warm glance, a thoughtful . . .’

‘Jesus.’

‘I’m an atheist,’ Vernon snapped. ‘Human behaviour’s my concern.’

‘Nice blank verse, you mean.’

‘Fathers usually dote on girl-children. Margaret was the only child, and when she was small we were close. I mended her toys, or provided the treats. By the time she reached twelve she’d grown out of the stage. That’s early, but she’s odd. Now she regards anything I say as wrong just because I say it. She’ll use me if she can. She can’t despise my brains, so she takes it on herself to criticise my manner of life. I don’t blame her. She has a point. She can hurt. But she’s my daughter. It hardly seems five minutes since she used to sit on my knee begging me to put the doll’s eye back or glue the felt to its board.’ Vernon stood, histrionic, then statuesque. ‘That was my finest hour.’ He levelly took Fisher on, eye to eye, defying him to mock the cliché. ‘I’ve built my practice up from near-beggary. I’ve won cases on my head-work and my industry. I’ve made some shrewd investments. But I don’t forget that time when my girl depended on me. And I love her. She can act as savagely, as crudely, as vindictively, as unbalanced as she pleases, and she does, she does, but I still love her.’

It was impressive.

Fisher moved, troubled, determined to act justly, still smiled at the trite rhythms, the cunning play with worn words. He was reminded of an eminent judge, universally praised as a speaker, who used exactly this technique. When this jurist spoke he delivered with resonant clarity a series of slight variations on much-handled phrases; this perhaps, was necessary in the law court. The jury had no time for daggers of wit, or carefully ground neologisms. They needed the plain truth varnished with pulpit-rhythm and school-book words. Fair enough. Didn’t Dr Johnson believe that contrite prayer was better without artifice? Repentance, trembling in the presence of the Judge, is not at leisure for cadence and epithets?